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FRINTINa AND BOOKBINDINQ COMPANT, 
new roRK, 



AN OLD-WORLD LANDLADY. 


But to make up my tale, 

She breweth good ale, 

' And thereof maketh sale. 

Skelton. 

Although few, if any, of the countries of Europe have in- 
creased so rapidly in wealth and cultivation as Scotland during 
the last half-century, Sultan Mahmoud’s owls might neverthe- 
less have found in Caledonia, at any term within that flourish- 
ing period, their dowery of ruined villages. Accident or local 
advantages have, in many instances, transferred the inhabitants 
of ancient hamlets, from the situations which their predecessors 
chose, with more respect to security than convenience, to those 
in which their increasing industry and commerce could more 
easily expand itself ; and hence places which stand distinguished 
in Scottish histor}^ and which flgure in David MTherson’s 
excellent historical map, can now only be discerned from the 
wild moor by the verdure which clothes their site, or, at best, 
by a few scattered ruins, resembling pinfolds, which mark the 
spot of their former existence. 

The little village of St. Ronan’s, though it had not yet fal- 
len into the state of entire oblivion we have described, was 
about twenty years since, fast verging toward it. The situation 
had something in it so romantic, that it provoked the pencil of 




2 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


every passing tourist ; and we will endeavor, therefore, to 
describe it in language which can scarcely be less intelligible 
than some of their sketches, avoiding, however, for reasons 
which seem to us of weight, to give any more exact indication 
of the site, than that it is on the southern side of the Forth, 
and not above thirty miles distant from the English frontier.* 

A river of considerable magnitude pours its streams through 
a narrow vale, varying in breadth from two miles to a fourth of 
that distance, and which, being composed of rich alluvial soil, 
is, and has long been enclosed, tolerably well inhabited, and 
cultivated with all the skill of Scottish agriculture. Either side 
of this valley is bounded by a chain of hills, which, on the right 
in particular, may be almost termed mountains. Little brooks 
arising in these ridges, and finding their way to the river, offer 
each its own little vale to the industry of the cultivator. Some 
of them bear fine large trees, which have as yet escaped the axe, 
and upon the sides of most there are scattered patches and 
fringes of natural copse wood, above and around which the banks 
of the stream arise, somewhat desolate in the colder months, 
but in summer glowing with dark purple heath, or with the 
golden lustre of the broom and gorse. This is a sort of scenery 
peculiar to those countries, which abound, like Scotland, in hills 
and in streams, and where the traveler is ever and anon dis- 
covering, in some intricate and unexpected reces§, a simple 
and silvan beauty, which pleases him the more, that it seems to 
be peculiarly his own property as the first discoverer. 

In one of these recesses, and so near its opening as to com- 
mand the prospect of the river, the broader valley, and the op- 
posite chain of hills, stood, and unless neglect and desertion 
have completed their wprk, still stands, the ancient and decayed 
village of St. Ronan’s. The site was singularly picturesque, as 
the straggling street of the village ran up a very steep hill on, 
the side of which were clustered, as it were upon little terraces, 
the cottages which composed the place, seeming, as in the Swiss 
towns on the Alps, to rise above each other toward the ruins 
of an old castle, which continued to occupy the crest of the 
eminence, and the strength of which had doubtless led the 
neighborhood to assemble under its walls for protection. It 
must, indeed, have been a place of formidable defence, for, on 
the side opposite to the town, its walls rose straight up from 
the verge of a tremendous and rocky precipice, whose base 
was washed by St. Ronan’s Burn, as the brook was entitled. 


*[See note to Introduction, p. 2.J 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


3 


On the southern side, where the declivity was less precipitous, 
the ground had been carefully leveled into successive terraces, 
which ascended to the summit of the hill, and were, or rather 
had been, connected by staircases of stone, rudelv ornamented. 
In peaceful periods these terraces had been occupied by the 
gardens of the Castle, and in limes of siege they added to its 
security, for each commanded the one immediately below it, so 
that they could be separately and successively defended, and 
all were exposed to the fire from the place itself — a massive 
square tower of the largest size, surrounded, as usual, by lower 
buildings, and a high embattled wall. On the northern side 
arose a considerable mountain, of which the descent that lay 
between the eminence on which the Castle was situated seemed 
detached portion, and which had been improved and deep- 
ened by three successive huge trenches. Another very deep 
trench was drawn in front of the main entrance from the 
east, where the principal gateway formed the termination of 
the street, which, as we have noticed, ascended from the vil- 
lage, and this last defence completed the fortifications of the 
tower. 

In the ancient gardens of the Castle, and upon all sides of 
it excepting the western, which was precipitous, large old trees 
had found root, mantling the rock and the ancient and ruinous 
walls with their dusky verdure, and increasing the effect of the 
shattered pile which towered up from the centre. 

Seated on the threshold of this ancient pile, where the 
“ proud porter ” had in former days “ reared himself,” * a stran- 
ger had a complete and commanding view of the decayed vil- 
age, the houses of which, to a fanciful imagination, might seem 
as if they had been suddenly arrested in hurrying down the 
precipitous hill, and fixed as if by magic in the whimsical 
arrangement which they now presented. It was like a sudden 
pause in one of Amphion’s country-dances, when the huts 
which were to form the future Thebes were jigging it to his 
lute. But, with such an observer, the melancholy excited by 
the desolate appearance of the village soon overcame all the 
lighter frolics of the imagination. Originally constructed on 
the humble plan used in the building of Scotch cottages about 
a century ago, the greater part of them had been long desert- 
ed ; and their fallen roofs, blackened gables, and ruinous walls, 
showed Desolation’s triumph over Poverty. On some huts the 
rafters, varnished with soot, were still standing, in whole or in 


* See the old ballad of King Estmere, in Percy’s Reliques. 


4 


ST. ROJVAN^S WELL. 


part, like skeletons, and a few, wholly or partially covered with 
thatch, seemed still inhabited, though scarce habitable ; for the 
smoke of the peat-fires, which prepared the humble meal of the 
indwellers, stole upward, not only from the chimneys, its reg- 
ular vent, but from various other crevices in the roofs. Nature, 
in the meanwhile, always changing, but renewing as she 
changes, was supplying, by the power of vegetation, the fallen 
and decaying marks of human labor. Small pollards, which 
had been formerly planted around the little gardens, had now 
waxed into huge and high forest-trees ; the fruit-trees had ex- 
tended their branches over the verges of the little yards, and 
the hedges had shot up into huge and irregular bushes ; while 
quantities of dock, and nettles, and hemlock, hiding the ruined 
walls, were busily converting the whole scene of desolation into 
a picturesque forest bank. 

Two houses in St Ronan’s were still in something like 
decent repair ; places essential — the one to the spiritual weal 
of the inhabitants, the other to the accommodation of travel- 
lers. These were the clergyman’s manse, and the village 
inn. Of the former we need only say that it formed no excep- 
tion to the general rule by which the landed proprietors of Scot- 
land seemed to proceed in lodging their clergy, not only in the 
cheapest, but in the ugliest and most inconvenient house which 
the genius of masonry can contrive. It had the usual number 
of chimneys — two, namely — rising like asses’ ears at either end, 
which answered the purpose for which they were designed as 
ill as usual. It had all the ordinary leaks and inlets to the 
fury of the elements, which usually form the subject of the com- 
plaints of a Scottish incumbent to his brethren of the Presby- 
tery : and, to complete the picture, the clergyman being a bach- 
elor, the pigs had unmolested admission to the garden and 
courtyard, broken windows were repaired with brown paper, 
and the disordered and squalid appearance of a low farm-house, 
occupied by a bankrupt tenant, dishonored the dwelling of 
one, who, besides his clerical character, was a scholar and a 
gentleman, though little of a humorist. 

Beside the manse stood the kirk of St. Ronan’s, a little old 
mansion with a clay floor, and an assemblage of wretched pews, 
originally of carved oak, but heedfully clouted with white fir- 
deal. But the external form of the church was elegant in the 
outline, having been built in Catholic times, when we cannot 
deny to the forms of ecclesiastical architecture that grace, which, 
as good Protestants, we refuse to their doctrine. The fabric 
hardly raised its gray and vaulted roof among the crumbling 


ST. RON/INKS WELL, 


5 

hills of mortality by which it was surrounded, and was indeed 
so small in size, and so much lowered in height by the graves 
on the outside, which ascended half-way up the low Saxon 
windows, that it might itself have appeared only a funeral vault, 
or mausoleum of larger size. Its little square tower, with the 
ancient belfry, alone distinguished it from such a monument. 
But when the gray-headed beadle turned the keys with his 
shaking hand, the antiquary was admitted into an ancient 
building, which, from the style of its architecture, and some 
monuments of the Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s which the old 
man was accustomed to point out, was generally conjectured to 
be as early as the thirteenth century. 

These Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s seem to have been at one 
time a very powerful family. They were allied to and friends 
of the house of Douglas, at the time when the overgrown 
power of that heroic race made the Stewarts tremble on the 
Scottish throne. It followed that, when, as our old naif histo- 
ian expresses it, “ no one dared to strive with a Douglas, nor 
yet with a Douglas’s man, for if he did, he was sure to come 
by the waur,” the family of St. Ronan’s shared their prosperity, 
and became lords of almost the whole of the rich valley of which 
their mansion commanded the prospect. But upon the turning 
of the tide, in the reign of James II., they became despoiled of 
the greater part of those fair acquisitions, and succeeding events 
reduced their importance still further. Nevertheless, they 
were, in the middle of the seventeenth centur}^, still a family of 
considerable note ; and Sir Reginald Mowbray, after the un- 
happy battle of Dunbar, distinguished himself by the obstinate 
defence of the Castle against the arms of Cromwell, who, in- 
censed at the opposition which he had unexpectedly encountered 
in an obscure corner, caused the fortress to be dismantled and 
blown up with gunpowder. 

After this catastrophe, the old Castle was abandoned to 
ruin ; but Sir Reginald, when, like Allan Ramsay’s Sir William 
Worthy, he returned after the Revolution, built himself a house 
in the fashion of that later age, which he prudently suited in 
size to the diminished fortunes of his family. It was situated 
about the middle of the village, whose vicinity was not in those 
days judged any inconvenience, upon a spot of ground more 
level than was presented by the rest of the acclivity, where, as 
we said before, the houses were notched as it were into the side 
of the steep bank, with little more level ground about them than 
the spot occupied by their site. But the Laird’s house had a 
court in front and a small garden behind, connected with another 


6 


ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


garden, which, occupying three terraces, descended, in emula- 
tion of the orchards of the old Castle, almost to the banks of 
the stream. 

The family continued to inhabit this new messuage until 
about fifty years before the commencement of our history, when 
it was much damaged by a casual fire ; and the Laird of the 
day, having just succeeded to a more pleasant and commodious 
dwelling at the distance of about three miles from the village, 
determined to abandon the habitation of his ancestors. As he 
cut down at the same time an ancient rookery (perhaps to 
defray the expenses of the migration), it became a common 
remark among the country folk, that the decay of St. Ronan’s 
began when Laird Lawrence and the crows flew off. 

The deserted mansion, however, was not consigned to owls 
and birds of the desert ; on the contrary, for many years it wit- 
nessed more fun and festivity than when it had been the 
sombre abode of a grave Scottish Baron of “ auld lang syne.” 
In short, it was converted into an inn, and marked by a huge 
sign, representing on the one side St. Ronan catching hold of 
the devil’s game-leg with his Episcopal crook, as the story may 
be read in his veracious legend, and on the other the Mowbray 
arms. It was by far the best frequented public-house in that 
vicinity ; and a thousand stories were told of the revels which 
had been held within its walls, and the gambols achieved under 
the influence of its liquors. All this, however, had long since 
passed away, according to the lines in my frontispiece. 

“ A merry place, ’twas said, in days of yore ; 

But something ail’d it now — the place was cursed.” 

The worthy couple (servants and favorites of the Mowbray 
family) who first kept the inn, had died reasonably wealthy, af- 
ter long carrying on a flourishing trade, leaving behind them 
an only daughter. They had acquired by degrees not only the 
property of the inn itself, of which they were originally tenants, 
but of some remarkably good meadow-land by the side of the 
brook, which, when touched by a little pecuniary necessity, the 
Lairds of St. Ronan’s had disposed of piecemeal, as the readiest 
way to portion off a daughter, procure a commission for the 
younger son, and the like emergencies. So that Meg Dods, 
when she succeeded to her parents, was a considerable heiress, 
and, as such, had the honor of refusing three topping farmers, 
two bonnet-lairds, and a horse-couper, who successively made 
proposals to her. 

Many bets were laid on the horse-couper’s success, but the 


ST. TONAN\S WELL. 


7 

knowing ones were taken in. Determined to ride the forehorse 
herself, Meg would admit no helpmate who might soon assert 
the rights of a master ; and so, in single blessedness, and with 
the despotism of Queen Bess herself, she ruled all matters with 
a high hand, not only over her men-servants and maid-servants, 
but over the stranger within her gates, who, if he ventured to 
oppose Meg’s sovereign will and pleasure, or desired to have 
either fare or accommodation different from that which she 
chose to provide for him, was instantly ejected with that answer 
which Erasmus tells us silenced all complaints in the German 
inns of his time, Qucere aliud hospitium^^ or, as Meg expressed 
it, “ Troop aff wi’ ye to another public.” As this amounted to 
a banishment in extent equal to sixteen miles from Meg’s resi- 
dence, the unhappy party on whom it was passed had no other 
refuge save by deprecating the wrath of his landlady, and re- 
signing himself to her will. It is but justice to Meg Dods to 
state, that though hers was a severe and almost despotic govern- 
ment, it could not be termed a tyranny, since it was exercised 
upon the whole for the good of the subject. 

The vaults of the old Laird’s cellar had not, even in his own 
day, been replenished with more excellent wines ; the only diffi- 
culty was to prevail on Meg to look for the precise liquor you 
chose ; — to which it may be added, that she often became res- 
tive when she thought a company had had “ as much as did 
them good,” and refused to furnish any more supplies. Then 
her kitchen was her pride and glory ; she looked to the dress- 
ing of every dish herself, and there were some with which she 
suffered no one to interfere. Such were the cock-a-leeky, and 
the savory minced collops, which rivaled in their way even the 
veal cutlets of our old friend Mrs. Hall, at Ferrybridge. Meg’s 
table-linen, bed-linen, and so forth, were always home made, of 
the best quality, and in the best order; and a weary day was 
that to the chambermaid in which her lynx eye discovered any 
neglect of the strict cleanliness which she constantly enforced. 
Indeed, considering Meg’s country and calling, we were never 
able to account for her extreme and scrupulous nicety, unless 
by supposing that it afforded her the most apt and frequent pre- 
text for scolding her maids ; an exercise in which she displayed 
so much eloquence and energy, that we must needs believe it 
to have been a favorite one.f 

* In a colloquy of Erasmus, called Diversaria, there is a very unsavory 
description of a German inn of the period, where an objection of the guest 
is answered in the manner expressed in the text — a great sign of want of 
comjietition on the road. 

t 'I'his circumstance shows of itself, that the Meg Dods of the tale cannot 


8 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


We have only further to commemorate the moderation of 
Meg’s reckonings, which, when they closed the banquet, often 
relieved the apprehensions, instead of saddening the heart, of 
the rising guest. A shilling for breakfast, three shillings for 
dinner, including a pint of old port, eighteenpence for a snug 
supper — such were the charges of the inn at St. Ronan’s, under 
this landlady of the olden world, even after the nineteenth cen- 
tury had commenced ; and they were ever tendered with the 
pious recollection, that her good father never charged half so 
much, but these weary limes rendered it impossible for her to 
make the lawing less.* 

Notwithstanding all these excellent and rare properties, the 
inn at St. Ronan’s shared the decay of the village to which it 
belonged. This was owing to various circumstances. The 
high-road had been turned aside from the place, the steepness 
of the street being murder (so the postilions declared) to their 
post-horses. It was thought that Meg’s stern refusal to treat 
them with liquor, or to connive at their exchanging foi porter 
and whisky the corn which should feed their cattle, had no 
small influence on the opinion of those respectable gentlemen, 
and that a little cutting and leveling would have made the 
ascent easy enough ; but let that pass. This alteration of the 
highway was an injury which Meg did not easily forgive to the 
country gentlemen, most of whom she had recollected when 
children. “ Their fathers,” she said, “ wad not have done the 
like of it to a lone woman.” Then the decay of the village 
itself, which had formerly contained a set of feuars and bonnet- 
lairds, who, under the name of the Chirupping Club, contrived 
to drink twopenny, qualified with brandy or whisky, at least 
twice or thrice a week, was some small loss. 

The temper and manners of the landlady scared away all 
customers of that numerous class, who will not allow originality 
to be an excuse for the breach of decorum, and who, little 
accustomed perhaps to attendance at home, love to play the 
great man at an inn, and to have a certain number of bows, 
deferential speeches, and apologies, in answer to the G — d — n 
ye’s which they bestow on the house, attendance, and enter- 
tainment. Unto those who commenced this sort of barter in 
the Clachan of St. Ronan’s, well could Meg Dods pay it back, 
in their own coin; and glad they were to escape from the 
house with eyes not quite scratched out, and ears not more 

be identified with her namesake Jenny Dods, who kept the inn at Howgate, 
on the Peebles road ; for Jenny, far different from our heroine, was un* 
matched as a slattern. 

* Note A. Inn charges. 


ST. RON-AN^S WELL. 


9 

deafened than if they had been within hearing of a pitched 
battle. 

Nature had formed honest Meg for such encounters ; and 
as her noble soul delighted in them, so her outward properties 
were in what Tony Lumpkin calls a concatenation accordingly. 
She had hair of a brindled color, betwixt black and gray, which 
was apt to escape in elf-locks from under her mutch when she 
was thrown into violent agitation — long skinny hands, termi- 
nated by stout talons — gray eyes, thin lips, a robust person, a 
broad, though fiat chest, capital wind, and a voice that could 
match a choir of fish-women. She was accustomed to say of 
herself, in her more gentle moods, that her bark was worse 
than her bite ; but what teeth could have matched a tongue, 
which, when in full career, is vouched to have been heard from 
the Kirk to the Castle of St. Ronan’s ? 

These notable gifts, however, had no charms for the travelers 
of these light and giddy-paced times, and Meg’s inn became 
less and less fr-equented. What carried the evil to the utter- 
most was, that a fanciful lady of rank in the neighborhood 
chanced to recover of some imaginary complaint by the use of 
a mineral well about a mile and a half from the village ; a 
fashionable doctor was found to write an analysis of the heal- 
ing waters, with a list of sundry cures ; a speculative builder 
took land in feu, and erected lodging-houses, shops, and even 
streets. At length a tontine subscription was obtained to erect 
an inn, which, for the more grace, was called a hotel; and so 
the desertion of Meg Dods became general.* 

She had still, however, her friends and well-wishers, many 
of whom thought, that as she was a lone woman, and known to 
be well to pass in the world, she would act wisely to retire from 
public life, and take down a sign which had no longer fascina- 
tion for guests. But Meg’s spirit scorned submission direct or 
implied. “Her father’s door,” she said, “should be open to 
the road, till her father’s bairn should be streekit and carried 
out at it with her feet foremost. It was not for the profit — 
there was little profit at it ; — profit .? — there was a dead loss ; 
—-but she wad not be dung by any of them. They maun hae a 
hottle,t maun they — and an honest public canna serve them ! 
They may hottle that likes ; but they shall see that Lucky Dods 
can hottle on as lang as the best of them — ay, though they had 
made a Tamteen of it, and linkit a’ their breaths of lives, whilk 

* Note B. Building-feus in Scotland, 
t This Gallic word (hotel) was first introduced in Scotland during the 
Author’s childhood, and was so pronounced by the lower class. 


10 


ST. ROATAN'S WELL. 


are in their nostrils, on end of ilk other like a string of wild* 
geese, and the langest liver bruick a’ (whilk was sinful pre- 
sumption), she would match ilk ane of them, as lang as her ain 
wind held out.” Fortunate it was for Meg, ^jince she had 
formed this doughty resolution, that although her inn had de- 
cayed in custom, her land had risen in value in a degree which 
more than compensated the balance on the wrong side of her 
books, and, joined to her usual providence and economy, 
enabled her to act up to her lofty purpose. 

She prosecuted her trade too with every attention to its 
diminished income ; shut up the windows of one half of her 
house, to baffle the tax-gatherer ; retrenched her furniture ; 
discharged her pair of post-horses, and pensioned off the old 
hump-backed postilion who drove them, retaining his services, 
however, as an assistant to a still more aged hostler. To console 
herself for restrictions by which her pride was secretly wounded, 
she agreed with the celebrated Dick Tinto to repaint her father’s 
sign, which had become rather undecipherable ; and Dick 
accordingly gilded the Bishop’s crook and augmented the horrors 
of the Devil’s aspect, until it became a terror to all the younger 
fry of the school-house, and a sort of visible illustration of the 
terrors of the arch-enemy, with which the minister endeavored 
to impress their infant minds. 

Under this renewed symbol of her profession, Meg Dods, or 
Meg Dorts, as she was popularly termed on account of her 
refractory humors, was still patronized by some steady cus- 
tomers. Such were the members of the Killnakelty Hunt, once 
famous on the turf and in the field, but now a set of venerable 
gray-headed sportsmen, who had sunk from foxhounds to 
basket-beagles and coursing, and who made an easy canter on 
their quiet nags a gentle induction to a dinner at Meg’s. “ A 
set of honest decent men they were,” Meg said; “had their 
sang and their joke — and what for no.? Their bind was just 
a Scots pint over-head, and a tappit-hen to the bill, and no 
man ever saw them the waur o’t. It was thae cockle-brained 
callants of the present day that would be mair owerta’en with 
a puir quart than douce folks were with a magnum.” 

Then there was a set of ancient brethren of the angle from 
Edinburgh, who visited St. Ronan’s frequently in the spring 
and summer, a class* of guests peculiarly acceptable to Meg, 
who permitted them more latitude in her premises than she 
was known to allow to any other body. “ They were,” she said, 
“pawky auld carles, that kend whilk side their bread was 
buttered upon. Ye never kend of ony o’ them ganging to the 
spring, as they behoved to ca’ the stinking well yonder. — Na, na 


ST. ROJVAN^S WELL. 


II 


— they were up in the morning — had their parritch, wi’ maybe 
a thimbleful of brandy, and then awa’ up into the hills, eat 
their bit cauld meat on the heather, and came hame at e’en 
wi’ the creel full of caller trouts, and had them to their dinner, 
and their quiet cogue of ale, and their drap punch, and were 
set singing their catches and glees, as they ca’d them, till ten 
o’clock, and then to bed, wi’ God bless ye — and what for no ? ” 

Thirdly, we may commemorate some ranting blades, who 
also came from the metropolis to visit St. Ronan’s, attracted 
by the humors of Meg, and still more by the excellence of her 
liquor, and the cheapness of her reckonings. These were 
members of the Helter Skelter Club, of the Wildfire Club, and 
other associations formed for the express purpose of getting rid 
of care and sobriety. Such dashers occasioned many a racket in 
Meg’s house, and many a bou7'asque in Meg’s temper. Various 
were the arts of flattery and violence by which they endeavored 
to get supplies of liquor, when Meg’s conscience told her they 
had had too much already. Sometimes they failed, as when 
the croupier of the Helter Skelter got himself scalded with the 
mulled wine, in an unsuccessful attempt to coax this formidable 
virago by a salute ; and the excellent president of the Wildfire 
received a broken head from the kevs of the cellar, as he 
endeavored to possess himself of these emblems of authority. 
But little did these dauntless officials care for the exuberant 
frolics of Meg’s temper, which were to them only “ pretty 
Fanny’s way” — the dukes Amarylides irce. And Meg, on 
her part, though she often called them “ drunken ne’er-do- 
w'eels, and thorough-bred High Street blackguards,” allowed 
no other person to speak ill of them in her hearing. “ They 
were daft callants,” she said, “ and that was all — when the 
drink was in the wit was out — ye could not put an auld 
head upon young shouthers — a young cowt will canter, be 
it up-hill or down — and what for no ? ” was her uniform 
conclusion. 

Nor must we omit, among Meg’s steady customers, “faithful 
amongst the unfaithful found,” the copper-nosed sheriff-clerk 
of the county, who, when summoned by official duty to that 
district of the shire, warmed by recollections of her double- 
brewed ale, and her generous Antigua, always advertised that 
his “ Prieves,” or “ Comptis,” or whatever other business was 
in hand, were to proceed on such a day and hour, “ within the 
house of Margaret Dods, vintner in St. Ronan’s.” 

We have only further to notice Meg’s mode of conducting 
herself toward chance travelers, who, knowing nothing of 
nearer or more fashionable accommodations, or perhaps con- 


12 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


suiting rather the state of their purse than of their taste, 
stumbled upon her house of entertainment. Her reception of 
these was as precarious as the hospitality of a savage nation to 
sailors shipwrecked on their coast. If the guests seemed to 
have made her mansion their free choice — or if she liked their 
appearance (and her taste was very capricious) — above all, if 
they seemed pleased with what they got, and little disposed to 
criticise or give trouble, it was all very well. But if they had 
come to St. Ronan’s because the house at the Well was full — 
or if she disliked what the sailor calls the cut of their jib — or 
if, above all, they were critical about their accommodations, 
none so likely as Meg to give them what in her country is 
called a sloan. In fact, she reckoned such persons a part of 
that ungenerous and ungrateful public, for whose sake she w’as 
keeping her house open at a dead loss, and who had left her, 
as it were, a victim to her patriotic zeal. 

Hence arose the different reports concerning the little inn 
of St. Ronan’s, which some favored travelers praised as the 
neatest and most comfortable old-fashioned house in Scotland, 
where you had good attendance, and good cheer, at moderate 
rates ; while others, less fortunate, could only talk of the dark- 
ness of the rooms, the homeliness of the old furniture, and the 
detestable bad humor of Meg Dods, the landlady. 

Reader, if you come from the more sunny side of the Tweed 
— or even if, being a Scot, you have had the advantage to be 
born within the last twenty-five years, you may be induced to 
think this portrait of Queen Elizabeth, in Dame Quickly’s 
piqued hat and green apron, somewhat overcharged in the 
features. But I appeal to my own contemporaries, who have 
known wheel-road, bridle-way, and foot-path, for thirty years, 
whether they do not, every one of them, remember Meg Dods 
— or somebody very like her. Indeed, so much is this the case, 
that, about the period I mention, I should have been afraid to 
have rambled from the Scottish metropolis, in almost any 
direction, lest I had lighted upon some one of the sisterhood of 
Dame Quickly, who might suspect me of having showed her up 
to the public in the character of Meg Dods. At present, though 
it is possible that some one or two of this peculiar class of wild- 
ca.ts may still exist, their talons must be much impaired by age ; 
and I think they can do little more than sit, like the Giant 
Pope in the Pilgrim’s Progress, atthedoor of their unfrequented 
caverns, and grin at the pilgrims over whom they used formerly 
to execute their despotism. 


ST. RONAA^'S WELL. 


CHAPTER SECOND. 

THE GUEST. 

Quis novus hie hospes ? 

Dido apud Virgilium. 

Ch’am-maid ! The Gemman in the front parlor ! 

l^OOTS'S FREE TRANSLATION OF THE EnEID. 

It was on a fine summer’s clay that a solitary traveler rode 
under the old-fashioned archway, and alighted in the court- 
yard of Meg Dods’s inn, and delivered the bridle of his horse 
to the hump-backed postilion. “ Bring my saddle-bags,” he 
said, into the house — or stay — -I am abler, I think, to carry 
them than you.” He then assisted the poor meagre groom to un- 
buckle the straps which secured the humble and now despised 
convenience, and meantime gave strict charges that his horse 
.should be unbridled, and put into a clean and comfortable stall, 
the girth slacked, and a cloth cast over his loins ; but that the 
saddle should not be removed until he himself came to see him 
dressed. 

The companion of his travels seemed in the hostler’s eye 
deserving of his care, being a strong active horse, fit either for 
the road or field, but rather high in bone from a long journey, 
though from the state of his skin it appeared the utmost care 
had been bestowed to keep him in condition. While the 
groom obeyed the stranger’s directions, the latter, with the 
saddle-bags laid over his arm, entered the kitchen of the inn. 

Here he found the landlady herself in none of her most 
blessed humors. The cook-maid was abroad on some errand, 
and Meg, in a close review of the kitchen apparatus, was mak- 
ing the unpleasant discovery, that trenchers had been broken 
or cracked, pots and saucepans not so accurately scoured as 
her precise notions of cleanliness required, which, joined to 
other detections of a more petty description, stirred her bile in 
no small degree ; so that, while she disarranged and arranged 
the Milk she maundered, in an undertone, complaints and 
menaces against the absent delinquent. 

The entrance of a guest did not induce her to suspend this 
agreeable amusement — she just glanced at him as he entered, 
then turned her back short on him, and continued her labor 
and her soliloquy of lamentation. Truth is, she thought she 


14 


ST. RONAJV’S WELL. 


recognized in the person of the stranger, one of those useful 
envoys of the commercial community, called by themselves and 
the waiters, Travelers, par excellence — by others. Riders and 
Bagmen. Now against this class of customers Meg had pecu- 
liar prejudices ; because, there being no shops in the old village 
of St. Ronan’s, the said commercial emissaries, for the con- 
venience of their traffic, always took up their abode at the New 
Inn or Hotel, in the rising and rival village called St. Ronan’s 
Well, unless when some straggler, by chance or dire necessity, 
was compelled to lodge himself at the Auld Town, as the place 
of Meg’s residence began to be generally termed. She had, 
therefore, no sooner formed the hasty conclusion that the in- 
dividual in question belonged to this obnoxious class, than she 
resumed her former occupation, and continued to soliloquize 
and apostrophize her absent handmaidens, without even ap- 
pearing sensible of his presence. 

“ The huzzy Beenie — the jaud Eppie — the deil’s buckie of 
a callant ! — Another plate gane — -they’ll break me out of house 
and ha’ ! ” 

The traveler, who, with his saddle-bags rested on the back 
of a chair, had waited in silence for some note of welcome,, 
now saw that ghost or no ghost he must speak first, if he in- 
tended to have any notice from his landlady. 

“ You are my old acquaintance. Mistress Margaret Dods ? ” 
said the stranger. 

“ What for no ? — and wha are ye that speers ? ” said Meg, 
in the same breath, and began to rub a brass candlestick with 
more vehemence .than before — the dry tone in which she spoke 
indicating plainly how little concern she took in the conver- 
sation. 

“ A traveler, good Mistress Dods, who comes to take up his 
lodgings here for a day or two.” 

“I am thinking ye will be mista’en,” said Meg; “there’s 
nae room for bags or jaugs here — ye’ve mista’en your road, 
neighbor — ye maun e’en bundle yoursell a bit further down 
hill.” 

“ I see you have not got the letter I sent you. Mistress 
Dods ? ” said the guest. 

“ How should I, man ? ” answered the hostess ; “ they have 
ta’en awa the post-office from us— moved it down till the Spa- 
well yonder, as they ca’d.” 

“ Why, that is but a step off,” observed the guest. 

‘ Ye will get there the sooner,” answered the hostess. 

‘ Nay, but,” said the guest, “ if you had sent there for my 
letter, you would have learned” " 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


15 

“ I’m no wanting to learn onything at my years,” said Meg. 
“ If folk have onything to write to me about, they may gie 
the letter to John Hislop, the carrier, that has used the road 
these forty years. As for the letters at the post-mistress’s, as 
they ca’ her down by yonder, they may bide in her shop- 
window, wi’ the snaps and bawbee rows, till Beltane, or I loose 
them, ril never file my fingers with them. Post-mistress, 
indeed ! — Upsetting cutty ! I mind her fou weel when she 
dree’d penance for antenup ” 

Laughing, but interrupting Meg in good time for the char- 
acter of the post mistress, the stranger assured her he had sent 
his fishing-rod and trunk to her confidential friend the carrier, 
and that he sincerely hoped she would not turn an old acquaint- 
ance out of her premises, especially as he believed he could 
not sleep in a bed within five miles of St. Ronan’s, if he knew 
that her Blue room was unengaged. 

“ Fishing-rod ! — Auld acquaintance ! — Blue room ! ” echoed 
Meg in some surprise ; and, facing round upon the stranger, 
and examining him with some interest and curiosity, — “ Ye’ll 
be nae bag-man, then, after a’ ? ” 

“ No,” said the traveler ; “ not since I have laid the saddle- 
bags out of my hand.” 

“ Weel, I canna say but I am glad of that — I canna bide 
their yanking way of knapping English at every word. — I have 
kent decent lads amang them too — What for no } — But that 
was when they stopped up here whiles, like other douce folk ; 
but since they gaed down, the hail flight of them, like a string 
of wild-geese, to the new-fashioned hottle yonder, I am told 
there are as mony hellicate tricks played in the traveler’s room, 
as they behove to call it, as if it were fou of drunken young 
lairds ” 

“ That is because they have not you to keep good order 
among them. Mistress Margaret.” 

“ Ay, lad ? ” replied Meg ; “ ye are a fine blaw-in-my-lug, to 
think to cuitle me off sae cleverly ! ” And, facing about upon 
her guest, she honored him with a more close and curious in- 
vestigation than she had at first designed to bestow upon him. 

All that she remarked was in her opinion rather favorable 
to the stranger. He was a well-made man, rather above than 
under the middle size, and apparently betwixt five-and-twenty 
and thirty years of age — for, although he might, at first glance, 
have passed for one who had attained the latter period, yet, on 
a nearer examination, it seemed as if the burning sun of a 
warmer climate than Scotland, and perhaps some fatigue, both 
of body and mind, had imprinted the marks of care and of 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


i6 

manhood upon his countenance, without abiding the course of 
years. His eyes and teeth were excellent, and his other fea' 
tures, though they could scarce be termed handsome, expressed 
sense and acuteness ; he bore, in his aspect, that ease and com- 
posure of manner, equally void of awkwardness and affectation, 
which is said emphatically to mark the gentleman ; and, al- 
though neither the plainness of his dress, nor the total want of 
the usual attendance, allowed Meg to suppose him a wealthy 
man, she had little doubt that he was above the rank of her 
lodgers in general. Amidst these observations, and while she 
was in the course of making them, the good landlady was em- 
barrassed with various obscure recollections of having seen the 
object of them formerly ; but when, or on what occasion, she 
was quite unable to call* to remembrance. She was particularly 
puzzled by the cold and sarcastic expression of a countenance, 
which she could not by any means reconcile with the recollec- 
tions which it awakened. At length she said, with as much 
courtesy as she was capable of assuming, — “ Either I have seen 
you before, sir, or some ane very like ye } — Ye ken the Blue 
room, too, and you a stranger in these parts ? ” 

“ Not so much a stranger as you may suppose, Meg,” said 
the guest, assuming a more intimate tone, “ when I call myself 
Frank Tyrrel.” 

“ Tirl ! ” exclaimed Meg, with a tone of wonder — “ It’s im- 
possible ! You cannot be Francie Tirl, the wild callant thal 
was fishing and bird-nesting here seven or eight years syne-- 
it canna be — Francie was but a callant ! ” 

“ But add seven or eight years to that boy’s life, Meg,” said 
the stranger, gravely, “ and you will find you have the man who 
is now before you.” 

“ Even sae ! ” said Meg, with a glance at the reflection of 
her own countenance in the copper coffee-pot, which she had 
scoured so brightly that it did the office of a mirror — “Just 
e’en sae — but folk maun grow auld or die. — But, Mr. Tirl, for 
I maunna ca’ ye Francie now, I am thinking ” 

“ Call me what you please, good dame,” said the stranger ; □ 
“ it has been so long since I heard any one call me by a name 
that sounded like former kindness, that such a one is more 
agreeable to me than a lord’s title would be.” 

“ Weel, then, Maister Francie — if it be no offence to you — 

I hope ye are no a Nabob? ” 

“ Not I, 1 can safely assure you, my old friend ; — but what 
an I were ? ” 

“ Naething — only maybe I might bid ye gang further, and 
be waur served. — Nabobs indeed ! the country’s plagued wi' 


ST. RONAAT^S WELL, 


17 

them. They have raised the price of eggs and pootry for 
twenty miles round — But what is my business ? — They use 
almaist a’ of them the Well down by — they need it ye ken for 
the clearing of their copper complexions, that need scouring as 
much as my saucepans, that naebody can clean but mysell.” 

“ Well, my good friend,” said Tyrrel, “ the upshot of all 
this is, I hope, that I am to stay and have dinner here? ” 

“ What for no ? ” replied Mrs. Dods. 

“ And that I am to have the Blue room for a night or two 
— perhaps longer ? ” 

“ I dinna ken that,” said the dame. — “ The Blue room is 
the best — and they that get neist best are no ill aff in this 
warld.” 

“ Arrange it as you will,” said the stranger, ‘‘ I leave the 
whole matter to you, mistress. — Meantime, I will go see after 
my horse.” 

“The merciful man,” said Meg, when her guest had left 
the kitchen, “ is merciful to his beast. — He had aye something 
about him by ordinar, that callant — But eh, sirs ! there is a 
sair change on his cheek-haffit since I saw him last ! — He sail 
no want a good dinner for auld lang syne, that I’se engage 
for.” 

Meg set about the necessary preparations with all the 
natural energy of her disposition, which was so much exerted 
upon her culinary cares, that her two maids, on their return to 
the house, escaped the bitter reprimand which she had been 
previously conning over, in reward for their alleged slatternly 
negligence. Nay, so far did she carry her complaisance, that 
when Tyrrel crossed the kitchen to recover his saddle-bags, she 
formally rebuked Eppie for an idle taupie, for not carrying the 
gentleman’s things to his room. 

“ I thank you, mistress,” said Tyrrel ; but I have some 
drawings and colors in these saddle-bags, and I always like to 
carry them myself.” 

“ Ay, and are you at the painting trade yet ? ” said Meg 5 
“ an unco slaister ye used to make with it lang syne.” 

“ I cannot live without it,” said Tyrrel ; and, taking the 
saddle-bags, was formally inducted by the maid into a snug 
apartment, where he soon had the satisfaction to behold a 
capital dish of minced collops, with vegetables, and a jug of 
excellent ale, placed on the table by the careful hand of Meg 
herself. He could do no less, in acknowledgment of the honor, 
than ask Meg for a bottle of the yellow seal, “ if there was any 
of that excellent claret still left.” 

“ Left ? — ay is there, walth of it,” said Meg ; “ I dinna gie 


i8 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


it to everybody — Ah ! Maister Tirl, ye have not got ower youf 
auld tricks ! — I am sure, if ye are painting for your leaving, as 
you say, a little rum and water would come cheaper, and do 
ye as much good. But ye maun hae your ain way the day, 
nae doubt, if ye should never have it again.” 

Away trudged Meg, her keys clattering as she went, and, 
after much rummaging, returned with such a bottle of claret 
as no fashionable tavern could have produced, were it called 
for by a duke, or at a duke’s price ; and she seemed not a little 
gratified when her guest assured her that he had not yet for- 
gotten its excellent flavor. She retired after these acts of 
hospitality, and left the stranger to enjoy in quiet the excellent 
matters which she had placed before him. 

But there was that on Tyrrel’s mind which defied the en- 
livening power of good cheer and of wine, which only maketh 
man’s heart glad when that heart has no secret oppression to 
counteract its influence. Tyrrel found himself on a spot which 
he had loved in that delightful season, when youth and high 
spirits awaken all those flattering promises which are so ill kept 
to manhood. He drew his chair into the embrasure of the old- 
fashioned window, and throwing up the sash to enjoy the fresh 
air, suffered his thoughts to return to former days, while his 
eyes wandered over objects which they had not looked upon for 
several eventful years. He could behold beneath his eye the 
lower part of the decayed village, as its ruins peeped from the 
umbrageous shelter with which they were shrouded. Still 
lower down, upon the little holm which forms its churchyard, 
was seen the Kirk of St. Ronan’s ; and looking yet further, 
toward the junction of St. Ronan’s Burn with the river which 
traversed the larger dale or valley, he could see, whitened by 
the western sun, the rising houses, which were either newly 
finished, or in the act of being built, about the medicinal spring. 

“ Time changes all around us,” such was the course of 
natural though trite reflection, which flowed upon Tyrrel’s 
mind ; “ wherefore should loves and friendships have a longer 
date than our dwellings and our monuments ” As he indulged 
these sombre recollections, his officious landlady disturbed theii 
tenor by her entrance. 

“ I was thinking to offer you a dish of tea, Maister Francie, 
just for the sake of auld lang syne, and I’ll gar the quean 
Beenie bring it here, and mask it mysell. — But ye arena done 
with your wine yet ? ” 

“ I am indeed, Mrs. Dods,” answered Tyrrel ; “ and I beg 
you will remove the bottle.” 

“ Remove the bottle, and the wine no half drunk out I ” said 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


19 


Meg, displeasure lowering on her brow ; “ I hope there is nae 
fault to be found wi’ the wine, Maister Tirl ? ” 

To this answer, which was put in a tone resembling defiance, 
Tyrrel submissively replied, by declaring “ the claret not only 
unexeptionable, but excellent.” 

And what for dinna ye drink it, then ? ” said Meg, sharply ; 
“ folk should never ask for mair liquor than they can mak a 
gude use of. Maybe ye think we have the fashion of the table- 
dot, as they ca’ their new-fangled ordinary down-by yonder, 
where a’ the bits of venegar cruets are put awa into an awinry, 
as they tell me, and ilk ane wi' the bit dribbles of syndings in 
it, and a paper about the neck o’t, to show which of the 
customers is aught it — there they stand like doctor’s drogs — 
and no an honest Scottish mutchkin will ane o’ their viols baud, 
granting it were at the fouest.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Tyrrel, willing to indulge the spleen and 
prejudice of his old acquaintance, “ perhaps the wine is not so 
good as to make full measure desirable.” 

‘‘ Ye may say that, lad — and yet them that sell it might 
afford a gude penniworth, for they hae it for the making — 
maist feck of it ne’er saw France or Portugal. But as I was 
saying — this is no ane of their new-fangled places, where wine 
is put by for them that canna drink it — wherf the cork’s drawn 
the bottle maun be drunk out — and what for no — unless it be 
corkit.” 

“ I agree entirely, Meg,” said her guest ; “ but my ride 
to-day has somewhat heated me — and I think the dish of tea 
you promise me, will do me more good than to finish my 
bottle.” 

“ Na, then, the best I can do for you is to put it by, to be 
sauce for the wild duck the morn ; for I think ye said ye were 
to bide here for a day or twa.” 

“ It is my very purpose, Meg, unquestionably,” replied 
Tyrrel. 

“ Sae be it then,” said Mrs. Dods ; “ and then the liquor’s no 
lost — it has been seldom sic claret as that has simmered in a 
saucepan, let me tell you that, neighbor ; — and I mind the day, 
when, headach or nae headach, ye wad hae been at the hinder- 
end of that bottle, and maybe anither, if ye could have gotten 
it wiled out of me. But then ye had your cousin to help you — 
Ah ! he was a blithe bairn that Valentine Bulmer ! — Ye were a 
canty callant too, Maister Francie, and muckle ado I had to 
keep ye baith in order when ye were on the ramble. But ye 
were a thought doucer than Valentine: — But oh, he was a bonny 
laddie ! — wi’ een like diamonds, cheeks like roses, a head like 


20 


ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


a heathertap — he was the first I ever saw wear a crap, as the^ 
ca’ it, but a’ body cheats the barber now — and he had a laugh 
that wad hae raised the dead ! — What wi’ flyting on him, and 
what wi’ laughing at him, there was nae minding ony other 
body when that Valentine was in the house. — And how is your 
cousin, Valentine Buimer, Maister Francie ? ” 

Tyrrel looked down, and only answered with a sigh. 

“ Ay — and is it even sae ? ” said Meg ; “ and has the puir 
bairn been sae soon removed frae this fashions warld ? — Ay — 
ay — we maun a’ gang ae gate — crackit quart-stoups and geisen’d 
barrels — leaky quaighs are we a’, and canna keep in the liquor 
of life — Ohon, sirs ! — Was the puir lad Buimer frae Bu’mer 
Bay, where they land the Hollands, think ye, Maister Francie 
— They whiles rin in a pickle tea there too — I hope that is good 
that I have made you, Maister Francie ^ ” 

“ Excellent, my good dame,” said Tyrrel ; but it was in a 
tone of voice which intimated that she had pressed upon a 
subject which awakened some unpleasant reflections. 

“ And when did this puir lad die ? ” continued Meg, who 
was not without her share of Eve’s qualities, and wished to 
know something concerning what seemed to affect her guest so 
particularly ; but he disappointed her purpose, and at the same 
time aw'akened another train of sentiment in her mind, by 
turning again to the window, and looking upon the distant 
buildings of St. Ronan’s Well. As if he had observed for the 
first time these new objects, he said to Mistress Dods, in an 
indifferent tone, “ You have got some gay new' neighbors 
yonder, mistress.” 

“ Neighbors,” said Meg, her wrath beginning to arise, as it 
alw'ays did upon any allusion to this sore subject — “ Ve may 
ca’ them neighbors if ye like — but the deil flee away wi’ the 
neighborhood for Meg Dods ! ” 

I suppose,” said Tyrrel, as if he did not observe her dis- 
pleasure, that yonder is the Fox Hotel they told me of ” 

“ The Fox ! ” said Meg ; “ I am sure it is the fox that has 
, carried off a’ my geese. — I might shut up house, Maister 
Francie, if it was the thing I lived by — me that has seen a’ our 
gentlefolks’ bairns, and gien them snaps and sugar-biscuit maist 
of them wi’ my ain hand ! They wad hae seen my father’s 
roof-tree fa’ down and smoor me before they wad hae gien a 
boddle apiece to have propped it up — but they could a’ link 
out their fifty pounds ower head to bigg a hottle at the Well 
yonder. And muckle they hae made o’t — the bankrupt body, 
Sandie Lawson, hasna paid them a baw'bee of four terms’ 
rent.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


21 


“ Surely, mistress, I think if the Well became so famous for 
its cures, the least the gentlemen could have done was to make 
you the priestess.” 

. “ Me priestess ! I am nae Quaker, I wot, Maister Francie ; 
and I never heard of ale wife that turned preacher, except 
Luckie Buchan in the West.* And if I were to preach, I think 
I have mair the spirit of a Scottishwoman, than to preach in 
the very room they hae been dancing in ilka night in the week, 
Saturday itsell not excepted, and that till twal o’clock at night. 
Na, na, Maister Francie ; I leave the like o’ that to Mr. Simon 
Chatterly, as they ca’ the bit prelatical sprig of divinity from 
the town yonder, that plays at cards and dances six days in the 
week, and on the seventh reads the Common Prayer-book in 
the ball-room, with Tam Simson, the drunken barber, for his 
clerk.” 

“ I think I have heard of Mr. Chatterly,” said Tyrrel. 

“ Ye’ll be thinking o’ the sermon he has printed,” said the 
angry dame, “ where he compares their nasty puddle of a well 
yonder to the pool of Bethesda, like a foul-mouthed, fleechlng, 
feather-headed fule as he is ! He should hae ken’d that the 
place got a’ its fame in the times of Black Popery ; and though 
they pat it in St. Ronan’s name. I’ll never believe for one that 
the honest man had ony hand in it ; for I hae been tell’d by 
ane that suldken, that he was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or 
Culdee, or such like. — But will ye not take anither dish of tea, 
Maister Francie.? and a wee bit of the diet-loaf, raised wi’ my 
ain fresh butter, Maister Francie ? and no wi’ greasy kitchen- 
fee, like the seedcake down at the confectioner’s yonder, that 
has as mony dead flees as carvey in it. Set him up for confec- 
tioner! Wi’ a penniworth of rye-meal, and anither of tryacle, 
and twa or three carvey seeds, I will make better confections 
than ever cam out of his oven I ” 

I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Dods,” said the guest ; “ and 
I only wish to know how these new comers were able to estab- 
lish themselves against a house of such good reputation and 
old standing as yours .? — It was the virtues of the mineral, I 
daresay; but how came the waters to recover a character all 
at once, mistress .? ” 

“ I dinna ken, sir— they used to be thought good for naething, 
but here and there for a puir body’s bairn, that had gotten the 
cruells,t and could not afford a penniworth of salts. But my 

* The foundress of a sect called Buchanites ; a species of Joanna 
Southcote, who long after death was expected to return and head her disci- 
ples on the road to Jerusalem. 

t Escrouellesj King’s Evil. 


22 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


Leddy Penelope Penfeather, had fa’n ill, it’s like, as nae othet 
body had ever fell ill, and sae she was to be cured some 
gate naebody was ever cured, which was naething mair than 
was reasonable — and my leddy, ye ken, has wit at wull, and 
has a’ the wise folk out from Edinburgh at her house at 
Windywa’s yonder, which it is her leddyship’s will and pleasure 
to call Air Castle — and they have a’ their different turns, and 
some can clink verses, wi’ their tale, as weel as Rob Burns or 
Allan Ramsay — and some rin up hill and down dale, knapping 
the chucky stanes to pieces wi’ hammers, like sae mony road- 
makers run daft — they sae it is to see how the warld was made ! 
— and some that play on all manner of ten-stringed instruments 
— and a wheen sketching souls, that ye may see perched like 
craws on every craig in the country, e’en working at your ain 
trade, Maister Francie ; forby men that had been in foreign 
parts, or said they had been there, whilk is a’ ane, ye ken, and 
maybe twa or three draggle-tailed misses, that wear my Leddy 
Penelope’s follies when she has dune wi’ them, as her queans 
of maids wear her second-hand claithes. So, after her leddy- 
ship’s happy recovery, as they ca’d it, down cam the haill tribe 
of wild geese, and settled by the Well, to dine thereout on the 
bare grund like a wheen tinklers ; and they had sangs, and 
tunes, and healths, nae doubt, in praise of the fountain, as they 
ca’d the Well, and of Leddy Penelope Penfeather ; and, lastly, 
they behoved a’ to take a solemn bumper of the spring, which, 
as 1 am tauld, made unco havoc among them, or they wan 
hame ; and this they ca’d Picknick, and a plague to them ! 
And sae the jig was began after her leddyship’s pipe, and 
mony a mad measure has been danced sin’ syne ; for down 
cam masons and murgeon-makers, and preachers and player- 
folk, and Episcopalians and Methodists, and fools and fiddlers, 
and Papists and piebakers, and doctors and drugsters ; by the 
shop-folk, that sell trash and trumpery at three prices — and so 
up got the bonny new Well, and down fell the honest auld town 
of St. Ronan’s, where blithe decent folk had been heartsome 
eneugh for mony a day before ony o’ them were born, or ony 
sic vaporing fancies kittled in their cracked brains.” 

“ What said your landlord, the Laird of St. Ronan’s, to all 
this ? ” said Tyrrel. 

“ Is’t my landlord ye are asking after, Maister Francie ? — 
the Laird of St Ronan’s is nae landlord of mine, and I think 
ye might hae minded that. — Na, na, thanks be to Praise ! 
Meg Dods is baith land/«^?r^/ and land/eA/(y, 111 eneugh to keep 
the doors open as it is, let be facing Whitsunday and Martin- 
mas — an auld leather pock there is, Maister Francie, in ane of 


ST, TONAN^S WELL, 


23 


worthy Maister Bindloose the sheriff-clerk’s pigeon-holes, in his 
dowcot of a closet in the burgh ; and therein is baith charter, 
and sasine, and special service to boot ; and that will be chap- 
ter and verse, speer when ye list.” 

“ I had quite forgotten,” said Tyrrel, “ that the inn was 
your own ; though I remember you were a considerable landed 
proprietor.” 

“ Maybe I am,” replied Meg, “ maybe I am not ; and if I 
be, what for no ? — But as to what the Laird, whose grandfather 
was my father’s landlord, said to the new doings yonder — he 
just jumped at the ready penny, like a cock at a grossart, and 
feu’d the bonny holm beside the Well, that they ca’d Saints- 
Well-holm, that was like the best land in his aught, to be 
carved, and biggit, and howkit up, just at the pleasure of Jock 
Ashler the stane-mason, that ca’s himsell an arkiteck — there’s 
nae living for new words in this new warld neither, and that is 
another vex to auld folk such as me — It’s a shame o’ the young 
Laird to let his auld patrimony gang the gate it’s like to gang, 
and my heart is sair to see’t though it has but little cause to 
care what comes of him or his.” 

“ Is it the same Mr. Mowbray,” said Mr. Tyrrel, “ who still 
holds the estate ? — the old gentleman, you know, whom I had 
some dispute with ” 

“About hunting moor-fowl upon the Spring-well- head 
muirs ” said Meg. “ Ah, lad ! honest Maister Bindloose 
brought you neatly off there — Na, it’s no that honest man, but 
his son John Mowbray — the tother has slept down-by in St. 
Ronan’s Kirk for these six or seven years.” 

“ Did he leave,” asked Tyrrel, with something of a falter- 
ing voice, “ no other child than the present laird ? ” 

“ No other son,” said Meg; “and there’s e’en eneugh, un- 
less he could have left a better ane.” 

“ He died, then,” said Tyrrel, “ excepting this son, without 
children ” 

“ By your leave, no,” said Meg ; “ there is the lassie Miss 
Clara, that keeps house for the laird, if it can be ca’d keeping 
house, for he is almost aye down at the Well yonder — soa sma’ 
kitchen serves them at the Shaws.” 

“ Miss Clara will have but a dull time of it there during her 
brother’s absence,” said the stranger. 

“ Hoot no ! — he hasher aften jinketing about, and back and 
forward, wi’ a’ the fine flichtering fools that come yonder ; and 
clapping palms wi’ them, and linking at their dances and 
daffing. I wuss nae ill come o’t, but it’s shame her father’s 
daughter should keep company wi’ a’ that scauff and raff of 


24 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


physic-students and writers’ prentices, and bagman and siclike 
trash as are down at the Well yonder.” 

“You are severe, Mrs. Dods,” replied the guest. “No 
doubt Miss Clara’s conduct deserves all sort of freedom.” 

“ I am saying naething against her conduct,” said the 
dame ; “ and there’s nae ground to say onything that I ken of 
— But I wad hae like draw to like, Maister Francie. I never 
quarreled the ball that the gentry used to hae at my bit house 
a gude wheen years bygane — when they came, the auld folk in 
their coaches, wi’ lang-tailed black horses, and a wheen galliard 
gallants on their hunting horses, and mony a decent leddy be- 
hind her ain goodman, and mony a bonny smirking lassie on 
her pownie, and wha sae happy as they — And what for no ? 
And then there was the farmers’ ball, wi’ the tight lads of yeo- 
men with the brank new blues and the buckskins — These were 
decent meetings — but then they were a’ ae man’s bairns that 
were at them, ilk ane kend ilk other — they danced farmers wi’ 
farmers’ daughters, at the tane, and gentles wi’ gentle blood at 
the tother, unless maybe when some of the gentlemen of the 
Killnakelty Club would gie me a round of the floor mysell, 
in the way of daffing and fun, and me no able to flyte on them 
for laughing — I am sure I never grudged these innocent pleas- 
ures, although it has cost me maybe a week's redding up, ere 
I got the better of the confusion.” 

“ But, dame,” said Tyrrel, “ this ceremonial would be a 
little hard upon strangers like myself, for how were we to find 
partners in these family parties of yours ? ” 

“ Never you fash your thumb about that, Maister Francie,” 
returned the landlady, with a knowing wink. — “ Every Jack 
will find a Jill, gang the world as it may — and, at the warst 
o’t, better hae some fashery in finding a partner for the night, 
than get yoked with ane that you may not be able to shake off 
the morn.” 

“ And does that sometimes happen } ” asked the stranger. 

“ Happen ! — and it’s amang the Well folk that ye mean ? ” 
exclaimed the hostess. “ Was it not the last season, as they ca’t, 
no further gane, than young Sir Bingo Binks, the English lad 
wi’ the red coat, that keeps a mail-coach, and drives it him- 
sell, gat cleekit with Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg, the auld Leddy 
Loupengirth’s lang-legged daughter — and they danced sae lang 
thegither, and that there was mair said than suld hae been said 
aVout it — and the lad would fain have louped back, but the 
Aild leddy held him to his tackle, and the Commissary Court 
/and somebody else made her Leddy Binks in spite of Sir Bingo’s 
heart — and he has never daured take her to his friends in 


ST, ROJV'AN^S WELL, 


25 

England, but they have just wintered and summered it at the 
Well ever since — and that is what the Well is good for ! ” 

“ And does Clara, — I mean does Miss Mowbray, keep com- 
pany with such women as these ? ’* said Tyrrel, with a tone of 
interest which he checked as he proceeded with the question. 

•‘What can she do, puir thing?” said the dame. “She 
maun keep the company that her brother keeps, for she is 
clearly dependent. — But, speaking of that, I ken what I have 
to do, and that is no little, before it darkens. I have sat 
clavering with you ower lang, Maister Francie.” 

And away she marched with a resolved step, and soon the 
clear octaves of her voice were heard in shrill admonition to 
her hand-maidens. 

Tyrrel paused a moment in deep thought, then took his hat, 
paid a visit to the stable, where his horse saluted him with 
feathering ears, and that low amicable neigh, with which that 
animal acknowledges the approach of a loving and beloved 
friend. Having seen that the faithful creature was in every 
respect attended to, Tyrrel availed himself of the continued 
and lingering twilight, to visit the old castle, which, upon 
former occasions, had been his favorite evening walk. He 
remained while the light permitted, adlmiring the prospect 
we attempted to describe in the first chapter, and comparing, 
as in his former reverie, the faded hues of the glimmering land- 
scape to those of human life, when early youth and hope had 
ceased to gild them. 

A brisk walk to the inn, and a light supper on a Welsh 
rabbit and the dame’s home-brewed, were stimulants of livelier, 
at least more resigned thoughts — and the Blue bedroom, to the 
honor of which he had been promoted, received him a con- 
tented, if not a cheerful tenant. 


26 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


CHAPTER THIRD. 

ADMINISTRATION. 

There must be governement in all society — 

Bees have their Queen, and stag herds have their leader; 

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her Archons, 

And we, sir, have our Managing Committee. 

The Album of St. Roman’s. 

i RANCis Tyrrel was, in the course of the next day, formally 
settled in his own old quarters, where he announced his pur- 
pose of remaining for several days. The old-established carrier 
of the place brought his fishing-rod and traveling-trunk, with 
a letter to Meg, dated a week previously, desiring her to prepare 
to receive an old acquaintance. This annunciation, though 
something of the latest, Meg received with great complacency, 
observing, it was a civil attention in Maister Tirl ; and that 
John Hislop, though he was not just sae fast, was far surer 
than ony post of them a’, or express either. She also observed 
with satisfaction, that there was no gun-case along with her 
guest’s baggage ; “ for that weary gunning had brought him 
and her into trouble — the lairds had cried out upon’t, as if she 
made her house a howff for common fowlers and poachers ; and 
yet how could she hinder twa daft hempie callants from taking 
a start and an ower-loup ? * They had been ower the neigh- 
bor’s ground they had leave on up to the march, and they 
werena just to ken meiths when the moorfowl got up.” 

In a day or two her guest fell into such quiet and solitary 
habits, that Meg, herself the most restless and bustling of hu- 
man creatures, began to be vexed, for want of the trouble which 
she expected to have had with him, experiencing, perhaps, the 
same sort of feeling from his extreme and passive indifference 
on all points, that a good horseman has for the over-patient 
steed, v/hich he can scarce feel under him. His walks were 
devoted to the most solitary recesses among the neighboring 
woods and hills — his fishing-rod was often left behind him, or 
carried merely as an apology for sauntering slowly by the banks 
of some little brooklet — and his success so indifferent, that Meg 
said the piper of Peebles t would have caught a creelfu’ before 

♦The usual expression for a slight encroachment on a neighbor’s property, 
t The said piper was famous at the mystery. 


ST. TOATAJV’S WELL. 


27 

Maister Francie had made out the half-dozen : so that he was 
obliged, for peace’s sake, to vindicate his character, by killing a 
handsome salmon. 

TyrrePs painting, as Meg called it, went on equally slowly : 
He ohen, indeed, showed her the sketches which he brought 
from his walks, aad used to finish at home ; but Meg held them 
very cheap. What signified, she said, a wheen bits of paper, 
wi’ black and white scarts upon them, that he ca’d bushes, and 
trees, and craigs ? — Couldna he paint them wi’ green, and blue, 
and yellow, like the other folk “ Ye will never mak your 
bread that way, Maister Francie. Ye suld munt up a niuckle 
square of canvas like Dick Tinto, and paint folk’s ainsells, 
that they like muckle better to see than ony craig in the haill 
water ; and I wadna muckle objeckeven to some of the Wallers 
coming up and sitting to ye. They waste their time waur, I 
wis — and, I warrant, ye might mak a guinea a-head of them. 
Dick made twa, but he was an auld used hand, and folk maun 
creep before they gang.” 

In answer to these remonstrances, Tyrrel assured her that 
the sketches with which he busied himself were held of such 
considerable value, that very often an artist in that line received 
much higher remuneration for these than for portraits or 
colored drawings. He added, that they were often taken for 
the purpose of illustrating popular poems, and hinted as if he 
himself were engaged in some labor of that nature. 

Eagerly did Meg long to pour forth to Nelly Trotter, the 
fish-woman, — whose cart formed the only neutral channel of 
communication between the Auld Town and the Well, and who 
was in favor with Meg, because, as Nelly passed her door on 
her way to the Well, she always had the first choice of her fish, 
— the merits of her lodger as an artist. Luckie Dods had, in 
truth, been so much annoyed and bullied, as it were, with the 
report of clever persons, accomplished in all sorts of excellence, 
arriving day after day at the Hotel, that she was overjoyed 
in this fortunate opportunity to triumph over them in their 
own way ; and it may be believed, that the excellences of her 
lodger lost nothing by being trumpeted through her mouth. 

“ I maun hae the best of the cart, Nelly — if you and me can 
gree — for it is for ane of the best of painters. Your fine folk 
down yonder would gie their lugs to look at what he has been 
doing — he gets gowd in gowpins, for three downright scarts and 
three cross anes — And he is no an ungrateful loon, like Dick 
Tinto, that had nae sooner my good five-and-twenty shillings 
in his pocket, than he gaed down to birl it awa at their bonny 
hottle yonder, but a decent quiet lad, that kens when he is 


28 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


weel aff, and bides still at the auld howff — And what for no ? 
— Tell them all this, and hear what they will §ay tilTt.” 

“ Indeed, mistress, I can tell yet hat already, without stirring 
my shanks for the matter,” answered Nelly Trotter; “they will 
e’en say that ye are ae auld fule and me anither, that may hae 
some judgment in cock-bree or in scate-rumples, but maunna 
fash our beards about onything else.” 

“ Wad they say sae, the frontless villains ? and me been a 
housekeeper this thirty year ! ” exclaimed Meg ; “ I wadna hae 
them say it to my face ! But I am no speaking without warrant 
— for what an I had spoken to the minister, lass, and shown 
him ane of the loose scarts of paper that Maister Tirl leaves 
fleeing about his room — and what an he had said he had kend 
Lord Bidmore gie five guineas for the waur on’t ? and a’ the 
warld kens he was lang tutor in the Bidmore family.” 

“ Troth,” answered her gossip, “ I doubt if I was to tell a’ 
this they would hardly believe me, mistress ; for there are sae 
mony judges amang them, and they think sae muckle of them- 
sells, and sae little of other folk, that unless ye were to send 
down the bit picture, I am no thinking they will believe a word 
that I can tell them.” 

“ No believe what an honest woman says — let abee to say 
twa o’ them ? ” exclaimed Meg ; “ Oh the unbelieving genera- 
tion ! — Weel, Nelh^, since my back is up, ye sail tak down the 
picture, or sketching, or whatever it is (though I thought 
sketchers * were aye made of aim), and shame wi’ it the con- 
ceited crew that they are. — But see and bring’t back wi’ ye 
again, Nelly, for it’s a thing of value ; and trustna it out o’ 
your hand, that I charge you, for I lippen no muckle to their 
honesty. — And, Nelly, ye may tell them he has an illustrated 
poem — illustrated — mind the word, Nelly — that is to be stuck 
as fou of the like o’ that, as ever turkey was larded wi’ dabs o’ 
bacon.” 

Thus furnished with her credentials, and acting the part of a 
herald betwixt two hostile countries, honest Nelly switched her 
little fish-cart downward to St. Ronan’s Well. 

In watering-places, as in other congregated assemblies of the 
human species, various kinds of government have been dictated 
by chance, caprice, or convenience ; but in almost all of them, 
some sort of direction has been adopted, to prevent the conse- 
quences of anarchy. Sometimes the sole power has been vested 
in a Master of Ceremonies ; but this, like other despotisms, has 
been of late unfashionable, and the powers of this great officer 

* Skates are called sketchers in Scotland. 


ST. RONAN-*S WELL, 


29 

have been much limited even at Bath, where Nash once ruled 
with undisputed supremacy. Committees of management, 
chosen from among the most steady guests, have been in general 
resorted to as a more liberal mode of sway, and to such was 
confided the administration of the infant republic of St. Ronan’s 
Well. This little senate, it must be observed, had the more 
difficult task in discharging their high duties, that, like those of 
other republics, their subjects were divided into two jarring and 
contending factions, who every day ate, drank, danced, and 
made merry together, hating each other all the while with all 
the animosity of political party, endeavoring, by every art, to 
secure the adherence of each guest who arrived, and ridiculing 
the absurdities and follies of each other, with all the wit and 
bitterness of which they were masters. 

At the head of one of these parties was no less a personage 
than Lady Penelope Penfeather, to whom the establishment 
owed its fame, nay, its existence ; and whose influence could 
only have been balanced by that of the Lord of the Manor, Mr. 
Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, or, as he was called usually by the 
company who affected what Meg cabled knapping English, the 
Squire, who was leader of the opposite faction. 

The rank and fortune of the lady, her pretensions to beauty 
as well as talent (though the former was something faded), and 
the consequence which she arrogated to herself as a woman of 
fashion, drew round her painters, and poets, and philosophers, 
and men of science, and lecturers, and foreign adventurers, et 
hoc genus omne. 

On the contrary, the Squire’s influence, as a man of family 
and property in the immediate neighborhood, who actually kept 
grayhounds and pointers and at least talked of hunters and of 
racers, ascertained him the support of the whole class of bucks, 
half and whole bred, from the three next counties; and if more 
inducements were wanting, ke could grant his favorites the 
privilege of shooting over his moors, which is enough to turn 
the head of a young Scottishman at any time. Mr. Mowbray 
was of late especially supported in his pre-eminence by a close 
alliance with Sir Bingo Binks, a sapient English Baronet, who, 
ashamed, as many thought, to return to his own country, had 
set him clown at the Well of St. Ronan’s to enjoy the blessing 
which the Caledonian Hymen had so kindly forced on him, in 
the person of Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg. As this gentleman 
actually drove a regular-built mail-coach, not in any respect 
differing from that of his Majesty, only that it was more fre- 
quently overturned, his influence with a certain set was irresisti- 
ble, and the Squire of St. Ronan’s, having the better sense of 


30 


^7". EONAN^S WELL. 


the two, contrived to reap the full benefit of the consequence 
attached to his friendship. 

These two contending parties were so equally balanced, that 
the predominance of the influence of either was often determined 
by the course of the sun. Thus, in the morning and forenoon, 
when Lady Penelope led forth her herd to lawn and shady 
bower, whether to visit some ruined monument bf ancient 
times, or eat their pic-nic luncheon, to spoil good paper with 
bad drawings, and good verses with rejaetition — in a word, 

“ To rave, recite, and madden round the land,” 

her ladyship’s empire over the loungers seemed uncontroled and 
absolute, and all things were engaged in the toiirbillon, of which 
she formed the pivot and centre. Even the hunters, and 
shooters, and hard drinkers, were sometimes fain reluctantly to 
follow in her train, sulking, and quizzing, and flouting at her 
solemn festivals, besides encouraging the younger nymphs to 
giggle when they should have looked sentimental. But after 
dinner the scene was changed, and her ladyship’s sweetest 
smiles, and softest invitations, were often insufficient to draw 
the neutral part of the company to the tea-room ; so that her 
society was reduced to those whose constitution or finances 
rendered early retirement from the dining-parlor a matter of 
convenience, together with the more devoted and zealous of her 
own immediate dependants and adherents. Even the faith of 
the latter was apt to be debauched. Her ladyship’s poet- 
laureate, in whose behalf she was teasing each new-comer for 
subscriptions, got sufficiently independent to sing in her lady- 
ship’s presence, at supper, a song of rather equivocal meaning; 
and her chief painter, wIkd was employed upon an illustrated 
copy of the Loves of the Plants, was, at another time, seduced 
into such a state of pot-valor, that, upon her ladyship’s ad- 
ministering her usual dose of criticism upon his works, he not 
only bluntly disputed her judgment, but talked something of 
his right to be treated like a gentleman. 

These feuds were taken up by the Managing Committee, 
who interceded for the penitent offenders on the following 
morning, and obtained their re-establishment in Lady Penel- 
ope’s good graces upon moderate terms. Many other acts of 
moderating authority they performed, much to the assuaging 
of faction, and the quiet of the Wellers ; and so essential was 
their government to the prosperity of the place, that, without 
them, St. Ronan’s spring would probably have been speedily 
deserted. We must, therefore, give a brief sketch of that 


ST. TOATAAT’S WELL. 


31 


potential Committee, which both factions, acting as if on a self- 
denying ordinance, had combined to invest with the reins of 
government. 

Each of its members appeared to be selected, as Fortunio, 
in the fairy-tale, chose his followers, for his peculiar gifts. 
First on the list stood the Man of Medicine, Dr. Quentin 
Quackleben, who claimed right to regulate medical matters at 
the spring, upon the principle which, of old, assigned the prop- 
erty of a newly-discovered country to the bucanier who com- 
mitted the earliest piracy on its shores. The acknowledgment 
of the Doctor’s merit, as having been first to proclaim and 
vindicate the merits of these healing fountains, had occasioned 
his being universally installed First Physician and Man of 
Science, which last qualification he could apply to all purposes, 
from the boiling of an egg to the giving a lecture. He was, 
indeed, qualified, like many of his profession, to spread both 
the bane and antidote before a dyspeptic patient, being as 
knowing a gastronome as Dr. Redgill himself, or any other 
worthy physician who has written for the benefit of the cuisine., 
from Dr. Moncrieff of Tippermalloch, to the late Dr. Hunter of 
York, and the present Dr. Kitchiner of London. But plural- 
ities are always invidious, and therefore the Doctor prudently 
relinquished the office of caterer and head-carver to the 
Man of Taste, who occupied regularly, and ex-officio^ the 
head of the table, reserving to himself the occasional privi- 
lege of criticising, and a principal share in consuming, the 
good things which the common entertainment afforded. We 
have only to sum up this brief account of the learned Doctor, 
by informing the reader that he was a tall, lean, beetlebrowed 
man, with an ill-made black scratch-wig, that stared out on 
either side from his lantern jaws. Pie resided nine months 
out of the twelve at St. Ronan’s, and was supposed to make an 
indifferent good thing of it, especially as he played whist to 
admiration. 

First in place^ though perhaps second to the Doctor in real 
authority, was Mr. Winterblossom ; a civil sort of person, who 
was nicely precise in his address, wore his liair cued, and 
dressed with powder, had knee-buckles set with Bristol stones, 
and a seal-ring as large as Sir John Falstaff’s. In his heyday 
he had a small estate, which he had spent like a gentleman, by 
mixing with the gay world. He was, in short, one of those 
respectable links that connect the coxcombs of the present day 
with those of the last age, and could compare, in his own ex- 
perience, the follies of both. In the latter days, he had sense 


32 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


enough to extricate himself from his course of dissipation, 
though with impaired health and impoverished fortune. 

Mr. Winterblossom now lived upon a moderate annuity, and 
had discovered a way of reconciling his economy with much 
company and made dishes, by acting as perpetual president of 
the table-d’hote at the Well. Here he used to amuse the 
society by telling stories about Garrick, Foote, Bonnel Thorn- 
ton, and Lord Kelly, and delivering his opinions in matters of 
taste and vertu. An excellent carver, he knew how to help 
each guest to what was precisely his due ; and never failed to 
reserve a proper slice as the reward of his own labors. To 
conclude, he was possessed of some taste in the fine arts, at 
least in painting and music, although it was rather ot the 
technical kind, than that which warms the heart and elevates 
the feelings. There was indeed, about Winterblossom, nothing 
that was either warm or elevated. He was shrewd, selfish, and 
sensual ; the last two of which qualities he screened from ob- 
servation, under a specious varnish of exterior complaisance. 
Therefore, in his professed and apparent anxiety to do the 
honors of the table, to the most punctilious point of good 
breeding, he never permitted the attendants upon the public 
taste to supply the wants of others, until all his own private 
comforts had been fully arranged and provided for. 

Mr. Winterblossom was also distinguished for possessing a 
few curious engravings, and other specimens of art, with the 
exhibition of which he occasionally beguiled a wet morning at 
the public room. They were collected, “ viis et modis,^’ said 
the Man of Law, another distinguished member of the Com- 
mittee, with a knowing cock of his eye to his next neighbor. 

Of this person little need be said. He was a large-boned, 
loud-voiced, red-faced old man, named Meiklewham ; a country 
writer, or attorney, who managed the matters of the Squire 
much to the profit of one or other, — if not of both. His nose 
projected from the front of his broad vulgar face, like the style 
of an old sun-dial, twisted all of one side. He was as great a 
bully in his profession, as if it had been military instead of civil ; 
conducted the whole technicalities concerning the cutting up 
the Saint’s-Wellhaugh, so much lamented by Dame Dods, into 
building-stances, and was on excellent terms with Doctor 
Quackleben, who always recommended him to make the wills 
of his patients. 

After the Man of Law comes Captain Hector MacTurk, a 
Highland lieutenant on half-pay, and that of ancient standing ; 
one who preferred toddy of the strongest to wine, and in that 
fashion and cold drams finished about a bottle of whisky per 


ST. RONAAT^S WELL. 


33 

diem^ whenever he could come by it. He was called the Man 
of Peace, on the same principle which assigns to constables, 
Bow-street runners, and such like, who carry bludgeons to 
break folk’s heads, and are perpetually and officially employed 
in scenes of riot, the title of peace-officers — that is, because by 
his valor he compelled others to act with discretion. The 
Captain was the general referee in all those abortive quarrels, 
which at a place of this kind are so apt to occur at night, and 
to be quietly settled in the morning ; and occasionally adopted 
a quarrel himself, by way of taking down any guest who was 
unusually pugnacious. This occupation procured Captain Mac- 
Turk a good deal of respect at the Well ; for he was precisely 
that sort of person who is ready to fight with any one — whom 
no one can find an apology for declining to fight with, — in 
fighting with whom considerable danger was incurred, for he 
was ever and anon showing that he could snuff a candle with a 
pistol-ball, — and lastly, through fighting with whom no eclat or 
credit could redound to the antagonist. He always wore a 
blue coat and red collar, had a supercilious taciturnity of 
manner, ate sliced leeks with his cheese, and resembled in 
complexion a Dutch red-herring. 

Still remains to be mentioned the Man of Religion — the 
gentle Mr. Simon Chatterly, who had strayed to St. Ronan’s 
Well from the banks of Cam or Isis, and who piqued himself, 
first on his Greek, and secondly, on his politeness to the ladies. 
During all the week days, as Dame Dods has already hinted, 
this reverend gentleman was the partner at the whist-rable, or 
in the ball-room, to what maid or matron soever lacked a 
partner at either ; and on the Sundays, he read jDrayers in the 
public room to all who chose to attend. He was also a deviser 
of charades, and an unriddler of riddles ; he played a little on 
the flute, and was Mr. Winterblossom’s principal assistant in 
contriving those ingenious and romantic paths, by which, as by 
the zig-zags which connect military parallels, you were enabled 
to ascend to the top of the hill behind the hotel, which com- 
mands so beautiful a prospect, at exactly that precise angle of 
ascent, which entitles a gentleman to offer his arm, and a lady 
to accept it, with perfect propriety. 

There was yet another member of- this Select Committee, 
Mr. Michael Meredith, who might be termed the Man of Mirth, 
or, if you please, the Jack Pudding to the company, whose busi- 
ness it was to crack the best joke, and sing the best song — he 
could. Unluckily, however, this functionary was for the pres- 
ent obliged to absent himself from St. Ronan’s ; for, not recol- 
lecting that he did not actually wear the privileged motley of 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


34 

his profession, he had passed some jest upon Captain MacTurk, 
which cut so much to the quick, that Mr. Meredith was fain to 
go to goat-whey quarters, at some ten miles’ distance, and remain 
there in a sort of concealment, until the affair should be made 
up through the mediation of his brethren of the Committee. 

Such were the honest gentlemen who managed the affairs of 
this rising settlement, with as much impartiality as could be 
expected. They were not indeed without their own secret 
predilections ; for the lawyer and the soldier privately inclined 
to the party of the Squire, while the person, Mr. Meredith, and 
Mr. Winterblossom, were more devoted to the interests of 
Lady Penelope ; so that Dr. Quackleben alone, who probably 
recollected that the gentlemen were as liable to stomach com- 
plaints, as the ladies to nervous disorders, seemed the only 
person who preserved in word and deed the most rigid neutral- 
ity. Nevertheless, the interests of the establishment being 
very much at the heart of this honorable council, and each 
feeling his own profit, pleasure, or comfort, in some degree 
involved, they suffered not their private affections to interfere 
with their public duties, but acted, every one in his own sphere, 
for the public benefit of the whole community. 


CHAPTER FOURTH. 

THE INVITATION. 

Thus painters write their names at Co. 

Prior. 

The clamor which attends the removal of dinner from a 
public room had subsided ; the clatter of plates, and knives, 
and forks — the bustling tread of awkward boobies of country 
servants, kicking each other’s shins, and wrangling as they 
endeavor to rush out of the door three abreast — the clash of 
glasses and tumblers, borne to earth in the tumult — the shrieks 
of the landlady — the curses, not loud, but deep, of the land- 
lord — had all passed away; and those of the company who 
had servants had been accommodated by their respective 
Ganymedes, with such remnants of their respective bottles of 
wine, spirits, etc., as the said Ganymedes had not previously 
consumed, while the rest, broken in to such observance by Mr. 
Winterblossom, waited patiently until the worthy president’s 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


35 

own special and multifarious commissions had been executed 
by a tidy young woman and a lumpish lad, the regular attend- 
ants belonging to the house, but whom he permitted to wait 
on no one, till, as the hymn says, 

“All his wants were well supplied.” 

“ And, Dinah — my bottle of pale sherry, Dinah — place it on 
this side — there is a good girl ; — and, Toby — get my jug with 
the hot water — and let it be boiling — and don’t spill it on 
Lady Penelope, if you can help it, Toby.” 

“ No — for her ladyship has been in hot water to-day al- 
ready,” said the Squire ; a sarcasm to which Lady Penelope 
only replied with a look of contempt. 

“And, Dinah, bring the sugar — the soft East India sugar, 
Dinah — and a lemon, Dinah, one of those which came fresh 
to-day — Go fetch it from the bar, Toby — and don’t tumble down 
stairs, if you can help it — And, Dinah — stay, Dinah — the nut- 
meg, Dinah, and the ginger, my good girl — And, Dinah — put 
the cushion up behind my back — and the footstool to my foot, 
for my toe is something the worse of my walk with your lady- 
ship this morning to the top of Belvidere.” 

“ Her ladyship may call it what she pleases in common par- 
lance,” said the writer ; “ but it must stand Munt-grunzie in the 
stamped paper, being so nominated in the ancient writs and 
evidents thereof.” 

“ And, Dinah,” continued the president, “ lift up my hand- 
kerchief — and — a bit of biscuit, Dinah — and — and I do not 
think I want anything else — Look to the company, my good 
girl. — I have the honor to drink the company’s very good 
health — Will your ladyship honor me by accepting a glass of 
negus ? — I learned to make negus from old Dartineuf’s son. — 
He always used East India sugar, and added a tamarind — It 
improves the flavor infinitely. — Dinah, see your father sends 
for some tamarinds — Dartineuf knew a good thing almost as 
well as his father — I met him at Bath in the year — let me see 
— Garrick was just taking leave, and that was in,” etc. etc. 
etc. — “And what is this now, Dinah?” he said, as she put into 
his hand a roll of paper.” 

“Something that Nelly Trotter” (Trotting Nelly, as the 
company called her) “brought from a sketching gentleman that 
lives at the woman’s” (thus bluntly did the upstart minx de- 
scribe the reverend Mrs. Margaret Dods) “ at the Cleikum of 
Aultoun yonder ” — A name, by the way, which the inn had 
acquired from the use which the saint upon the sign-post was 
making of his pastoral crook. 


36 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


“ Indeed, Dinah ? ” said Mr. Winterblossom, gravely taking 
out his spectacles, and wiping them before he opened the roll 
of paper; “some boy’s daubing, I suppose, whose pa and ma 
wish to get him into the Trustees’ School, and so are beating 
about for a little interest. — But I am drained dry — I put three 
lads in last season ; and if it had not been my particular in- 
terest with the secretary, who asks my opinion now and then, 
I could not have managed it. But giff gaff, say I. — Eh ! What, 
in the devil’s name, is this ? — Here is both force and keeping — 
Who can this be, my lady ? — Do but see the sky-line — why, 
this is really a little bit — an exquisite little bit — Who the devil 
can it be ? and how can he have stumbled upon the dog-hole 

in the old Town, and the snarling b I beg your ladyship ten 

thousand pardons — that kennels there ? ” 

“ I dare say, my lady,” said a little miss of fourteen, her 
eyes growing rounder and rounder, and her cheeks redder 
and redder, as she found herself speaking, and so many folks 
listening — “ Oh, la! I dare say it is the same gentleman we 
met one day in the Low-wood walk, that looked like a gentle- 
man, and yet was none of the company, and that you said was a 
handsome man.” 

“ I did not say handsome, Maria,” replied her ladyship ; 
“ ladies never say men are handsome — I only said he looked 
genteel and interesting.” 

“ And that, my lady,” said the young parson, bowing and 
smiling, “ is, I will be judged by the company, the more flat- 
tering compliment of the two — We shall be jealous of this 
Unknown presently.” 

“ Nay, but,” continued the sweetly communicative Maria, 
with some real and some assumed simplicity, “ your ladyship 
forgets — for you said presently after, you were sure he was no 
gentleman, for he did not run after you with your glove which 
you had dropped — and so I v^ent back myself to find your lady- 
ship’s glove, and he never offered to help me, and I saw him 
closer than your ladyship did, and I am sure he is handsome, 
though he is not very civil.” 

“ You speak a little too much and too loud, miss,” said 
Lady Penelope, a natural blush reinforcing the finance of rouge 
by which it was usually superseded. 

“ What say you to that, Squire Mpwbray ? ” said the elegant 
Sir Bingo Binks. 

“ A fair challenge to the field. Sir Bingo,” answered the 
Squire ; “ when a lady throws down the gauntlet, a gentleman 
may throw the handkerchief.” 

“ I have always the benefit oi your best construction, Mr. 


ST. JiONAN^Ci WELL, 


37 

Mowbray/’ said the lady, with dignity. “ I suppose Miss Maria 
has contrived this pretty story for your amusement. I can hardly 
answer to Mr. Digges, for bringing her into company where 
she receives encouragement to behave so.” 

“ Nay, nay, my lady,” said the president, “ you must let the 
jest pass by ; and since this is really such an admirable sketch, 
you must honor us with your opinion, whether the company 
can consistently with propriety make any advances to this 
man.” 

“ In my opinion,” said her ladyship, the angry spot still 
glowing on her brow, “ there are enough of 7?ien among us 
already — I wish I could say gentlemen — As matters stand, I 
see little business ladies can have at St. Ronan’s.” 

This was an intimation^ which always brought the Squire 
back to good breeding, which he could make use of when he 
pleased. He deprecated her ladyship’s displeasure, until she 
told him, in returning good-humor, that she really would not 
trust him unless he brought his sister to be security for his 
future politeness. 

“ Clara, my lady,” said Mowbray, “ is a little wilful ; and I 
believe your ladyship must take the task of unharboring her 
into your own hands. What say you to a gypsy party up to my 
old shop ? — It is a bachelor’s house — you must notjexpect things 
in much order ; but Clara would be honored ”--- — , 

The Lady Penelope eagerly accepted the proposal of some- 
thing like a party, and, quite reconciled with Mowbray, began 
to inquire whether she might bring the stranger artist with her, 
“ that is,” said her ladyship, looking to Dinah, “ if he be a 
gentleman.” 

Here Dinah interposed her assurance, “ that the gentleman 
at Meg Dod’s was quite and clean a gentleman, and an illus- 
trated poet besides.” 

“ An illustrated poet, Dinah ? ” said Lady Penelope ; “you 
must mean an illustrious poet.” 

“ I dare to say your ladyship is right,” said Dinah, drop- 
ping a courtesy. 

A joyous flutter of impatient anxiety was instantly excited 
through all the blue-stocking faction of the company, nor were 
the news totally indifferent to the rest of the community. The 
former belonged to that class, who,, like the young Ascanius, 
are ever beating about in quest of a tawny lion, though they are 
much more successful in now and then starting a great bore 

* The one or the other was equally in votis to Ascanius, — 

“ Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendre monte leonem.’^ 

Modern Trojans make a great distinction betwixt these two objects of chase. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


38 

and the others, having left all their own ordinary affairs and 
subjects of interest at home, were glad to make a matter of 
importance of the most trivial occurrence. A mighty poet, said 
the former class — who could it possibly be ? — All names were 
recited — all Britain scrutinized, from Highland hills to the 
Lakes of Cumberland — from Sydenham Common to St. James’s 
Place — even the banks of the Bosphorus were explored for some 
name which might rank under this distinguished epithet. — And 
then, besides his illustrious poesy, to sketch so inimitably ! — 
who could it be ? And all the gapers, who had nothing of their 
own to suggest, answered with the antistrophe, “ Who could it 
be .? ” 

The Claret Club, which comprised the choicest and firmest 
adherents of Squire Mowbray and the Baronet — men who 
scorned that the reversion of one bottle of wine should furnish 
forth the feast of to-morrow, though caring naught about either 
of the fine arts in question, found out an interest of their own, 
which centred in the same individual. 

“ I say, little Sir Bingo,” said the Squire, “ this is the very 
fellow that we saw down at the Willow-slack on Saturday — ^he 
was tog’d gnostically enough, and cast twelve yards of line 
with one hand — the fly fell like, a thistledown on the water.” 

“ Uich !” answered the party he addressed, in the accents of 
a dog choking in the collar! , . / 

“ We saw him pull out the salmon yonder,” said Mowbray ; 
“you remember — clean fish — the tideticks on his gills — weighed, 
I dare say, a matter of eighteen pounds.” 

“ Sixteen ! ” replied Sir Bingo, in the same tone of strangu- 
lation. 

“ None of your rigs, Bing ! ” said his companion, “ nearer 
eighteen than sixteen ! ” 

“ Nearer sixteen, by ! ” 

“Will you go a dozen of blue on it to the company ? ” said 
the Squire. 

“ No, d — me ! ” croaked the Baronet — “ to our own set I 
will.” 

“ Then I say done ! ” quoth the Squire. 

And “ Done ! ” responded the Knight ; and out came their 
red pocket-books. 

“ But who shall decide the bet ? ’’.said the Squire. “ The 
genius himself I suppose ; they talk of asking him here, but I 
suppose he will scarce mind quizzes like them.” 

“ Write myself — John Mowbray,” said the Baronet. 

“ You, Baronet ! — you write ! ’’answered the Squire, “d — me 
that cock won’t fight — you won’t.” 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


39 


“ I will,” growled Sir Bingo, more articulately than usual. 

“Why, you can’t !” said Mowbray. “ You never wrote a 
line in your life, save those you were whipped for at school.” 

“ I can write — I will write ! ” said Sir Bingo. “ Two to 
one I will.” 

And there the affair rested, for the council of the company 
were in high consultation concerning the most proper manner of 
opening a communication with the mysterious stranger; and 
the voice of Mr. Winterblossom, whose tones, originally fine, 
age had reduced to falsetto, was calling upon the whole party 
for “ Order, order !” So that the bucks were obliged to lounge 
in silence, with both arms reclined on the table, and testifying, 
by coughs and yawns, their indifference to the matters in ques- 
tion, while the rest of the company debated upon them, as if they 
were matters of life and death. 

“ A visit from one of the gentlemen — Mr. Winterblossom, 
if he would take the trouble — in name of the company at large 
— would Lady Penelope Penfeather presumed to think, be a 
necessary prelTminary to an invitation.” 

Mr. Winterblossom was “ quite of her ladyship’s opinion, and 
would gladly have been the personal representative of the com- 
pany at St. Ronan’s Well — but it was up hill — her ladyship 
knew his tyrant,, the gout, was hovering upon the frontiers — 
there were other gentlemen, younger, and more worthy to fly at 
the lady’s command than an ancient Vulcan like him — there 
was the valiant Mars and the eloquent Mercury.” 

Thus speaking, he bowed to Captain MacTurkand the Rev. 
Mr. Simon Chatterly, and reclined on his chair, sipping his negus 
with the self-satisfied smile of one who, by a pretty speech, has 
rid himself of a troublesome commission. At the same time, by 
an act probably of mental absence, he put in his pocket the draw- 
ing, which, after circulating around the table, had returned 
back to the chair of the president, being the point from which 
it had set out. 

“ By Cot, madam.” said Captain MacTurk, “ I should be 
proud to obey your leddyship’s commands — but, by Cot, I 
never call first on any man that never called upon me at all, un- 
less it were to carry him a friend’s message, or such like.” 

“ Twig the old connoisseur,” said the Squire to the Knight. 
— “ He is condidling the drawing.” 

“Go it, Johnnie Mowbray — pour it into him,” whispered 
Sir Bingo. 

“ Thank ye for nothing. Sir Bingo,” said the Squire, in the 
same tone. “ Winterblossom is one of us — was one of us at 
least — and won’t stand the ironing. He has his Wogdens still, 


40 


ST. RONAN'S WELL 


that were right things in his day, and can hit the hay-stack with 
the best of us — but stay, they are hallooing on the parson.” 

They were indeed busied on all hands to obtain Mr. Chat- 
terly’s consent to wait on the Genius unknown ; but though he 
smiled and simpered, and was absolutely incapable of saying 
No, he begged leave, in all humility, to decline that commis- 
sion. ‘‘ The truth was,” he pleaded in his excuse, “ that hav- 
ing one day walked to visit the old Castle of St. Ronan’s, and 
returning through the Auld Town, as it was popularly called, 
he had stopped at door of the Cleikum'^ (pronounced Anglice\ 
with the open diphthong), “in hopes to get a glass of syrup of 
capillaire, or a draught of something cooling ; and had in fact 
expressed his wishes, and was knocking pretty loudly, when a 
sash window was thrown suddenly up, and ere he was aware 
M^hat was about to happen, he was soused with a deluge of 
water (as he said), while the voice of an old hag from within 
assured him that if that did not cool him there was another 
biding him — an intimation which induced him to retreat in all 
haste from the repetition of this shower-bath.” 

All laughed at the account of the chaplain’s misfortune, the 
history of which seemed to be wrung from him reluctantly, by 
the necessity of assigning some weighty cause for declining to 
execute the ladies’ command. But the Squire and Baronet 
continued their mirth far longer than decorum allowed, flinging 
themselves back in their chairs, with their hands thrust into 
their side pockets, and their mouths expanded with unrestained 
enjoyment, until the sufferer, angry, disconcerted, and endeav- 
oring to look scornful, incurred another general burst of laugh- 
ter on all hands. 

When Mr. Winterblossom had succeeded in restoring some 
degree of order, he found the mishaps of the young divine 
proved as intimidating as ludicrous. Not one of the company 
chose to go Envoy Extraordinary to the dominions of Queen Meg, 
who might be suspected of paying little respect to the sanctitv 
of an ambassador’s person. And what was worse, when it was 
resolved that a civil card from Mr. Winterblosom, in the name of 
the company, should be sent to the stranger instead of a personal 
visit. Dinah informed them that she was sure no one about the 
house could be bribed to carry up a letter of the kind ; for, when 
such an event had taken place two summers since, Meg, who 
construed it into an attempt to seduce from her tenement the 
invited guest, had so handled a ploughboy who carried the letter, 
that he fled the country-side altogether, and never thought him- 
self safe till he was at a village ten miles off, where it was after- 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


41 


ward learned he enlisted with a recruiting party, choosing 
rather to face the French than to return within the sphere of 
Meg’s displeasure. 

Just while they were agitating this new difficulty, a prodigious 
clamor was heard without, which, to the first apprehensions of the 
company, seemed to be Meg, in all her terrors, come to antici- 
pate the proposed invasion. Upon inquiry, however, it proved 
to be her gossip, Trotting Nelly, or Nelly Trotter, in the act of 
forcing her way up stairs, against the united strength of the 
whole household of the hotel, to reclaim Luckie Dods’s picture 
as she called it. This made the connoisseur’s treasure tremble 
in his pocket, who, thrusting a half-crown into Toby’s hand, 
exhorted him to give it to her, and try his influence in keeping 
her back. Toby, who knew Nelly’s nature, put the half-crown 
into his own pocket, and snatched up a gill-stoup of whisky 
from the sideboard. Thus armed, he boldly confronted the 
virago, and interposing a remora, which was able to check poor 
Nelly’s course in her most determined moods, not only suc- 
ceeded in averting the immediate storm which approached the 
company in general, and Mr. Winterblosom in particular, 
but brought the guests the satisfacrory information, that Trot- 
ting Nelly had agreed, after she had slept out her nap in the 
barn, to convey their commands to the Unknown of Cleikum 
of Aultoun. 

Mr. Winterblossom, therefore, having authenticated his pro- 
ceedings by inserting in the Minutes of the Committee the au- 
thority which he had received, wrote his card in the best style of 
diplomacy, and sealed it with the seal of the Spa, which bore 
something like a nymph, seated beside what was designed to 
represent an urn. 

The rival factions, however, did not trust entirely to this 
official invitation. Lady Penelope was of opinion that they 
should find some way of letting the stranger — a man of talent 
unquestionably — understand that there were in the society to 
which he was invited spirits of a more select sort, who felt 
worthy to intrude themselves on his solitude. 

Accordingly her ladyship imposed upon the elegant Mr. Chat- 
terly the task of expressing the desire of the company to see the 
unknown artist, in a neat occasional copy of verses. The poor 
gentleman’s muse, however, proved unpropitious, for he was 
able to proceed no further than two lines in half-an-hour, which, 
coupled with its variations, we insert from the blotted manu- 
script, as Dr. Johnson has printed the alterations in Pope’s ver- 
sion of the Iliad : — 


42 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


I. Maids 2. Dames unity joining. 

The [nymphs] of St, Ronan’s [in purpose combining] 

I. Swain. 2. Man. 

To the [youth] who is great both in verse and designing, 
dining. 

The eloquence of a prose billet was necessarily resorted to 
in the absence of the heavenly muse, and the said billet was 
secretly intrusted to the care of Trotting Nelly. The same 
trusty emissary, when refreshed by her nap among the pease- 
straw, and about to harness her cart for her return to the 
sea-coast (in the course of which she was to pass the Aultoun), 
received another card, written, as he had threatened, by Sir 
Bingo Binks himself, who had given himself this trouble to 
secure the settlement of the bet ; conjecturing that a man with 
a fashionable exterior, who could throw twelve yards of line at 
a cast with such precision, might consider the invitation of 
Winterblossom as that of an old twaddler, and care as little for 
the good graces of an affected blue-stocking and her cbterie., 
W'hose conversation, in Sir Bingo’s mind, relished of nothing 
but of weak tea and bread and butter. Thus the happy Mr. 
Francis Tyrrel received, considerably to his surprise, no less 
than three invitations at once from the Well of St. Ronan’s. 


CFI AFTER FIFTH. 

EPISTOLARY ELOQUENCE. 

But how can I answer, since first I must read thee ? 

Prior. 

Desirous of authenticating our more important facts, by as 
many original documents as possible, we have, after much re- 
search, enabled ourselves to present our readers with the follow- 
ing accurate transcripts of the notes intrusted to the care of 
Trotting Nelly. The first ran thus: — 

“ Mr. Winterblossom [of Silverhed] has the commands of 
Lady Penelope Penfeather, Sir Bingo and Lady Binks, Mr. and 
Miss Mowbray [of St. Ronan’s] and the rest of the company at 
the Hotel and Tontine Inn of St. Ronan’s Well, to express their 
hope that the gentleman lodged at the Cleikum Inn, Old Town 
of St. Ronan’s, will favor them with his company at the 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


43 


Ordinary, as early and as often as may suit his convenience. 
The Company think it necessary to send this intimation because 
according to the Rules of the place, the Ordinary can only be 
attended by such gentlemen and ladies as lodge at St. Ronan’s 
Well ; but they are happy to make a distinction in favor of a 
gentleman so distinguished for success in the fine arts as Mr. 

, residing at Cleikum. If Mr. should be 

inclined, upon becoming further acquainted with the Company 
and Rules of the place, to remove his residence to the Well, 
Mr. Winterblossom, though he would not be understood to 
commit himself by a positive assurance to that effect, is inclined 
to hope that an arrangement might be made, notwithstanding 

the extreme crowd of the season,- to accommodate Mr. 

at the lodging-house, called Lilliput Hall. It will much 

conduce to facilitate this negotiation, if Mr. would 

have the goodness to send an exact note of his stature, as Captain 
Rannletree seems disposed to resign the, folding-bed at Lilliput 
Hall, on account of his finding it rather deficient in length. Mr, 

Winterblossom begs further to assure Mr. of the 

esteem in which he holds his genius, and of his high personal 
consideration. 

“ For , Esquire, Cleikum Inn, 

Old Town of St. Ronan’s. 

‘ The Public Rooms, Hotel, and Tontine, 

St. Ronan^s Well^ etc. etc. etc.’* 

The above card was written (we love to be precise in mat- 
ters concerning orthography) in a neat, round, clerk-like hand, 
which, like Mr. Winterblossom’s character, in many particulars 
was most accurate and commonplace, though betraying an af- 
fectation both of flourish and of facility. 

The next billet was a contrast to the diplomatic gravity and 
accuracy of Mr. Winterblossom’s official communication, and 
ran thus, the young divine’s academic jests and classical flow- 
ers of eloquence being mingled with some wild flowers from the 
teeming fancy of Lady Penelope. 

“A choir of Dryads and Naiads, assembled at the healing 
spring of St. Ronan’s, have learned with surprise that a youth, 
gifted by Apollo, when the Deity was prodigal, with two of his 
most esteemed endowments, wanders at will among their do- 
mains, frequenting grove and river, without once dreaming of 
paying homage to its tutelary deities. He is, therefore, sum- 
moned to their presence, and prompt obedience will ensure him 


44 


ST. J?OJ\rAJV^S WELL. 


forgiveness ; but in case of contumacy, let him beware how he 
again essays either the lyre on the pallet. 

“ Postscript. The adorable Penelope, long enrolled among 
the Goddesses for her beauty and virtues, gives Nectar and 
Ambrosia, which mortals call tea and cake, at the Public Rooms, 
near the Sacred Spring, on Thursday evening, at eight o’clock, 
when the Muses never fail to attend. The stranger’s presence 
is requested to participate in the delights of the evening. 

“ Second postscript. A shepherd, ambitiously aiming at more 
accommodation than his narrow cot affords, leaves it in a day 
or two. 

‘ Assuredly the thing is to be hired 

As You Like It. 

“ Postscript third. Our Iris, whom mortals know as Trotting 
Nelly in her tartan cloak, will bring us the stranger’s answer to 
our celestial summons.” 

This letter was written in a delicate Italian hand, garnished 
with fine hair-strokes and dashes, which were sometimes so 
dexterously thrown off as to represent lyres, pallets, vases, 
and other appropriate decorations, suited to the tenor of the 
contents. 

The third epistle was a complete contrast to the other two. 
It was written in a coarse, irregular, schoolboy half-text, which, 
however, seemed to have cost the writer as much pains as if it 
had been a specimen of the most exquisite caligraphy. And 
these were the contents : — 

“ SuR — Jack Moobray has betted with me that the samon 
you killed on Saturday last weyd ni to eiteen pounds, — I say 
nyer sixteen. — So you being a spurtsman, ’tis refer’d. — So hope 
you will come or send me’t ; do not doubt you will be on honor. 
The bet is a dozen of claret, to be drank at the hotel by our 
own sett on Monday next ; and we beg you will make one ; and 
Moobray hopes you will come down. — Being, sir, your most 
humbel servant, — Bingo Binks Baronet, and of Block-hall. 

“ Postscript. Have sent some loops of Indian gout, also some 
black hakkels of my groom’s dressing ; hope they will prove 
killing, as suiting river and season.” 

No answer was received to any of these invitations for more 
than three days ; which, while it secretly rather added to than 
diminished the curiosity of the Wellers concerning the Unknown, 
occasioned much railling in public against him, as ill-mannered 
and rude 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


45 


Meantime, Francis Tyrrel, to his great surprise, began to 
find, like the philosophers, that he was never less alone than 
when alone. In the most silent and sequestered walks, to 
which the present state of his mind induced him to betake him- 
self he was sure to find some strollers from the Well, to whom 
he had become the object of so much solicitous interest. Quite 
innocent of the knowledge that he himself possessed the attrac- 
tion which occasioned his meeting them so frequently, he began 
to doubt whether the Lady Penelope and her maidens — Mr. 
Winterblossom and his gray pony — the parson and his short 
black coat and raven-gray pantaloons — were not either actually 
polygraphic copies of the same individuals, or possessed of a 
celerity of motion resembling omnipresence and ubiquity ; for 
nowhere could he go without meeting them, and that oftener than 
once a-day, in the course of his walks. Sometimes the presence of 
the sweet Lycoris was intimated by the sweet prattle in an 
adjacent shade ; sometimes, when Tyrrel thought himself most 
solitary, the parson’s flute was heard snoring forth Gramachree 
Molly ; and if he betook himself to the river, he was pretty 
sure to find his sport watched by Sir Bingo or some of his 
friends. 

The efforts which Tyrrel made to escape from this persecu- 
tion, and the impatience of it which his manner indicated, pro- 
cured him among the Wellers the name of the Alisanthrope ; 
and once distinguished as an object of curiosity, he was the 
person most attended to, who could at the Ordinary of the day 
give the most accurate account of where the Misanthrope had 
been, and how occupied in the course of the morning. And so 
far was Tyrrel’s shyness from diminishing the desire of the 
Wellers for his society, that the latter feeling increased with the 
difficulty of, gratification, — as the angler feels the most peculiar 
interest when throwing his fly for the most cunning and con- 
siderate trout in the pool. 

In short, such was the interest which the excited imagina- 
tions of the company took in the Misanthrope, that, notwith- 
standing the unamiable qualities which the word expresses, 
there was only one of the society who did not desire to see the 
specimen at their rooms, for the purpose of examining him 
closely and at leisure ; and the ladies were particularly desirous 
to inquire whether he was actually a Misanthrope ? Whether 
he had been always a Misanthrope ? What had induced him 
to become a Misanthrope ? And whether there were no means 
of inducing him to cease to be a Misanthrope 

One individual only, as we have said, neither desired to see 
nor hear more of the supposed Timon of Cleikum, and that was 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


46 

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s. Through the medium of that 
venerable character John Pirner, professed weaver and prac- 
tical black-fisher in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s, who usually 
attended Tyrrel, to show him the casts of the river, carry his 
bag, and so forth, the Squire had ascertained that the judgment 
of Sir Bingo regarding the disputed weight of the fish was more 
correct than his own. This inferred an immediate loss of 
honor, besides the payment of a heavy bill. And the conse- 
quences might be yet more serious ; nothing short of the 
emancipation of Sir Bingo, who had hitherto been Mowbray’s 
convenient shadow and adherent, but who, if triumphant, con- 
fiding in his superiority of judgment upon so important a point, 
might either cut him altogether, or expect that, in future, the 
Squire, who had long seemed the planet of their set, should be 
content to roll around himself, Sij* Bingo, in the capacity of a 
satellite. 

The Squire, therefore, devoutly hoped that Tyrrel’s restive 
disposition might continue, to prevent the decision of the bet, 
while, at the same time, he nourished a very reasonable degree 
of dislike to that stranger, who had been the indirect occasion 
of the unpleasant predicament in which he found himself, by 
not catching a salmon weighing a pound heavier. He, there- 
fore, openly censured the meanness of those who proposed 
taking further notice of Tyrrel, and referred to the unanswered 
letters, as a piece of impertinence which announced him to be 
no gentleman. 

But though appearances were against him, and though he 
was in truth naturally inclined to solitude, and averse to the 
affectation and bustle of such a society, that part of Tyrrel’s 
behavior which indicated ill-breeding was easily accounted for, 
by his never having received the letters which i;equired an 
answer. Trotting Nelly, whether unwilling to face her gossip, 
Meg Dods, without bringing back the drawing, or whether 
oblivious through the influence of the double dram with which 
she had been indulged at the Well, jumbled off with her cart 
to her beloved village of Scate-raw, from w^hich she transmitted 
the letters by the first bare-legged gillie who traveled toward 
Aultoun of St. Ronan’s ; so that at last, but after a long delay, 
they reached the Cleikum Inn and the hands of Mr. Tyrrel. 

The arrival of these documents. explained some part of the 
oddity of behavior which had surprised him in his neighbors 
of the Well ; and as he saw they had got somehov/ an idea of 
his being a lion extraordinary, and was sensible that such is 
a character equally ridiculous, and difficult to support, he 
hastened to write to Mr. Winterblossom a card in the style of 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


47 


ordinary mortals. In this he stated the delay occasioned by 
miscarriage of the letter, and his regret on that account ; ex- 
pressed his intention of dining with the company at the Well 
on the succeeding day, while he regretted that other circum- 
stances, as well as the state of his health and spirits, would 
permit him this honor very unfrequently during his stay in 
the country, and begged no trouble might be taken about his 
accommodation at the Well, as he was perfectly satisfied with 
his present residence. A separate note to Sir Bingo said he 
was happy he could verify the weight of the fish, which he had 
noted in his diary (‘* D — n the fellow, does he keep a diary ? ” 
said the Baronet), and though the result could only be partic- 
ularly agreeable to one party, he should wish both winner and 
loser mirth with their wine ; he was sorry he was unable to 
promise himself the pleasure of participating in either. En- 
closed was a signed note of the weight of the fish. Armed 
with this. Sir Bingo claimed his wine — triumphed in his judg- 
ment — swore louder and more articulately than ever he was 
known to utter any previous sounds, that this Tyrrel was 
a devilish honest fellow, and he trusted to be better acquainted 
with him ; while the crest-fallen Squire, privately cursing the 
stranger by all his gods, had no mode of silencing his companion 
but by allowing his loss, and fixing a day for discussing the bet. 

In the public rooms the company examined even microsco- 
pically the response of the stranger to Mr. Winterblossom. 
straining their ingenuity to discover, in the most ordinary 
expressions, a deeper and esoteric meaning, expressive of some- 
thing mysterious, and not meant to meet the eye. Mr. Meikle- 
wham, the writer, dwelt on the word circumstances^ which he 
read with peculiar emphasis. 

“Ah, poor lad ! ” he concluded, “ I doubt he sits cheaper at 
Meg Dort’s chimney-c6rner than he could do with the present 
company.” 

Docter Quackleben, in the manner of a clergyman selecting 
a word from his text, as that which is particularly insisted 
upon, repeated in an under tone, the words. State of health ? 
— umph — state of health ? — Nothing acute — no one has been 
sent for — must be chronic — tending to gout, perhaps. — Or his 
shyness to society — light wild eye — irregular step — starting 
when met suddenly by a stranger, and turning abruptly and 
angrily away — Pray, Mr. Winterblossom, let me have an order 
to look over the file of newspapers — it’s very troublesome that 
restriction about consulting them.” 

“ You know it is a necessary one. Doctor,” said the president ; 
“ because so few of the good company read anything else, that 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


48 

the old newspapers would have been worn to pieces long 
since.” 

“ Well, well, let me have the order,” said the Doctor ; “ I 
remember something of a gentleman run away from his friends 
— I must look at the description. — I believe I have a strait- 
jacket somewhere about the Dispensary.” 

While this suggestion appalled the male part of the company 
who did not much relish the approaching dinner in company 
with a gentleman whose situation seemed so precarious, some of 
the younger Misses whispered to each other — “Ah poor fellow ! 
— and if it be as the Doctor supposes, my lady, who knows 
what the cause of his illness may have been ? — His spirits he 
complains of — ah, poor man.” 

And thus, by the ingenious commentaries of the company at 
the Well, on as plain a note as ever covered the eighth part of 
a sheet of foolscap, the writer was deprived of his property, his 
reason, and his heart, “ all or either or one or other of them,” 
as is briefly and distinctly expressed in the law' phrase. 

In short so much was said pro and con^ so many ideas started 
and theories maintained, concerning the disposition and charac- 
ter of the Misanthrope, that, when the company assembled at the 
usual time, before proceeding to dinner, they doubted, as it 
seemed, whether the expected addition to their society was 
to enter the room on his hands or his feet ; and when “ Mr. 
Tyrrel ” w'as announced by Toby, at the top of his voice, the 
gentleman who entered the room had so very little to distinguish 
him from others, that there W'as a momentary disappointment. 
The ladies, in particular, began to doubt whether the compound 
of talent, misanthropy, madness, and mental sensibility, which 
they had pictured to themselves, actually was the same with 
the genteel, and even fashionable-looking man whom they saw 
before them ; who, though in a morning dress, which the distance 
of his residence and the freedom of the place made excusable, 
had, even in the minute points of his exterior, none of the negli- 
gence, or w'ildness, which might be supposed to attach to the 
vestments of a misanthropic recluse, whether sane or insane. 
As he paid his compliments roi’.nd the circle, the scales seemed 
to fall from the eyes of those he spoke to ; and they saw wdth 
surprise that the exaggerations had existed entirely in their 
owm preconceptions, and that, whatever the fortunes or rank in 
life of Mr. Tyrrel might be, his manners, without being showy, 
were gentleman-like and pleasing. He returned his thanks to 
Mr.Winterblossom in a manner which made that gentleman 
recall his best breeding to answ^er the stranger’s address in kind. 
He then escaped from the awkwardness of remaining the sole 


ST, RONAN'S WELL, 


49 

object of attention, by gliding gradually among the company, — 
not like an owl, which seeks to hide itself in a thicket, or an 
awkward and retired man, shrinking from the society into which 
he is compelled, but with the air of one who could mauntain 
with ease his part in a higher circle. His address to Lady 
Penelope was adapted to the romantic tone of Mr Chatterly’s 
epistle, to which it was necessary to allude. He was afraid, he 
said, he must complain to Juno of the neglect of Iris, for her 
irregularity in delivery of a certain ethereal command, which he 
had not dared to answer otherwise than by mute obedience — 
unless, indeed, as the import of the letter seemed to infer, the 
in-vitation was designed for some more gifted individual than he 
to whom chance had assigned it. 

Lady Penelope by her lips, and many of the young ladies 
with their eyes, assured him there was no mistake in the 
matter ; that he was really the gifted person whom the nymphs 
had summoned to their presence, and that they were well 
acquainted with his talents as a poet and a painter. Tyrrel 
disclaimed, with earnestness and gravity, the charge of poetry, 
and professed, that, far from attempting the art itself, he “read 
with reluctance all but the productions of the very first-rate 
poets, and some of these — he was almost afraid to say — he 
should have liked better in humble prose.” 

“ You have now only to disown your skill as an artist,” said 
Lady Penelope, “ and we must consider Mr. Tyrrel as the 
falsest and most deceitful of his sex, who has a mind to deprive 
us of the opportunity of benefiting by the productions of his 
unparalleled endowments. I assure you I shall put my young 
friends on their guard. Such dissimulation cannot be without 
its object.” 

“And I,” said Mr. Winterblossom, “can produce apiece of 
real evidence against the culprit.” 

So saying, he unrolled the sketch which he had filched from 
Trotting Nelly, and which he had pared and pasted (arts in 
which he was eminent), so as to take out its creases, repair its 
breaches, and vamp it as well as my old friend Mrs. Weir could 
have repaired the damages of time on a folio Shakespeare. 

“ The vara corpus delicti^ said the writer, grinning and 
rubbing his hands. 

“ If you are so good as to call such scratches drawings,” said 
Tyrrel, “ I must stand so far confessed. I used to do them for 
my own amusement ; but since my landlady, Mrs. Dods, has of 
late discovered that I gain my livelihood by them, why should 
I disown it ? ” 

This avowal, made without the least appearance either of 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


SO 

shame or retemie^ seemed to have a striking effect on the whole 
society. The president’s trembling hand stole the sketch back 
to the portfolio, afraid doubtless it might be claimed in form, 
or else compensation expected by the artist. Lady Penelope 
was disconcerted, like an awkward horse when it changes the 
leading foot in galloping. She had to recede from the respect- 
ful and easy footing on which he had contrived to place him- 
self, to one which might express patronage on her own part, 
and dependence on Tyrrel’s ; and this could not be done in a 
moment. 

The Man of Law murmured, “ Circumstances — circumstances 
— I thought so ! ” 

Sir Bingo whispered to his friend the Squire, “ Run out — 
blown up — off the course — pity — d — d pretty fellow he has 
been ! ” 

“ A raff from the beginning ! ” whispered Mowbray. — “ I 
never thought him anything else.” 

“ I’ll hold ye a pony of that, my dear, and I’ll ask him.” 

“ Done, for a pony provided you ask him in ten minutes,” 
said the Squire ; “ but you dare not, Bingie — he has a d — d 
cross game look, with all that civil chaff of his.” 

“ Done,” said Sir Bingo, but in a less confident tone than 
before, and with a determination to proceed with some caution 
in the matter. — “ I have got a rouleau above, and Winter- 
blossom shall hold stakes.” 

“ I have no rouleau,” said the Squire ; “ but I’ll fly a cheque 
on Meiklewham.” 

“ See it be better than your last,” said Sir Bingo, ‘Tor I 
won’t be skylarked again. — Jack, my boy, you are had.” 

“ Not till the bet’s won ; and I shall see yon walking dandy 
break your head, Bingie, before that,” answered Mowbray. 
“ Best speak to the Captain beforehand — it is a hellish scrape 
you are running into — I’ll let you off yet, Bingie, for a guinea 
forfeit. — See, I am just going to start the tattler.” 

“ Start, and be d — d ! ” said Sir Bingo. “ You are gotten, I 
assure you o’ that. Jack. And with a bow and a shuffle, he 
went up and introduced himself to the stranger as Sir Bingo 
Binks. 

“ Had — honor — write — sir,” were the only sounds which his 
throat, or rather his cravat, seemed to send forth. 

“ Confound the booby ! ” thought Mowbray ; “ he will get 
out of leading strings, if he goes on at this rate ; and doubly 
confounded be this cursed tramper, who, the Lord knows why, 
has come hither from the Lord knows where, to drive the pigs 
through my game.” 


ST. JWNAN^S WELL, 


5 * 

In the meantime, while his friend stood with his stop-watch 
in his hand, with a visage lengthened under the influence of 
these reflections. Sir Bingo, with an instinctive tact, which 
self-preservation seemed to dictate to a brain neither the most 
delicate nor subtle in the world, premised his inquiry with 
some general remarks on fishing and field-sports. With all 
these he found Tyrrel more than passably acquainted. Of 
fishing and shooting, particularly, he spoke with something like 
enthusiasm ; so that Sir Bingo began to hold him in consider- 
able respect, and to assure himself that he could not be, or at 
least could not originally have been bred, the itinerant artist 
which he now gave himself out — and this, with the fast lapse 
of the time, induced him thus to address Tyrrel. --“I say, Mr. 
Tyrrel — why, you have been one of us — I say ” 

“ If you mean a sportsman. Sir Bingo — -I have been, and 
am a pretty keen one still,” replied Tyrrel. 

“Why, then, you did not always do them sort of things?” 

“ What sort of things do you mean. Sir Bingo ? ” said 
Tyrrel. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you.” 

“ Why, I mean them sketches,” said Sir Bingo. “I’ll give 
you a handsome order for them, if you tell me. I will, on my 
honor.” 

“ Does it concern you particularly. Sir Bingo, to know any- 
thing of my affairs ? ” said Tyrrel. 

,, • “ No — certainly — not immediately,” answered Sir Bingo, 
with some hesitation, for he liked not the dry tone in which 
Tyrrel’s answers were returned half so well as a bumper of dry 
sherry ; “ only I said you were a d — d gnostic fellow, and I laid 
a bet you have not been always professional — that’s all.” 

Mr. Tyrrel replied, “ A bet with Mr. Mowbray, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, with Jack,” replied the Baronet — “you have hit it — 
I hope I have done him ? ” 

Tyrrel bent his brows, and looked first at Mr. Mowbray, 
then at the Baronet, and, after a moment’s thought, addressed 
the latter. — “Sir Bingo Binks, you are a gentleman of elegant 
inquiry and acute judgment. — You are perfectly right — I was 
7iot bred to the profession of an artist, nor did I practice it for- 
merly, whatever I may do now ; and so that question is 
answered.” 4 

“And Jack is diddle'd,” said the Baronet, smiting his thigh 
in triumph, and turning toward the Squire and the stakeholder 
with a smile of exhultation. 

“ Stop a single moment. Sir Bingo,” said Tyrrel ; “ take one 
word with you. I have a great respect for bets — it is part of 
an Englishman’s charter to bet on what he thinks fit, and to 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


$2 

prosecute his inquiries over hedge and ditch, as if he were 
steeple-hunting. But as I have satisfied you on the subject pf 
two bets, that is sufficient compliance with the custom of the 
country ; and therefore I request. Sir Bingo, you will not make 
me or my affairs the subject of any more wagers.” 

“ I’ll be d — d if I do,” was the internal resolution of Sir 
Bingo. Aloud he muttered some apologies, and was heartily 
glad that the dinner-bell, sounding at the moment, afforded 
him an apology for shuffling off in a different direction. 


CHAPTER SIXTH. 

TABLE-TALK. 

And, sir, if these accounts be true, 

The Dutch have mighty things in view 
The Austrians — I admire French beans. 

Dear ma’am, above all other greens. 

* * * * * 

And all as lively and as brisk 

As — Ma’am, dy’e choose a game at whisk ? 

Table-Talk. 

When they were about to leave the room, Lady Penelope 
assumed Tyrrel’s arm with a sweet smile of condescension, 
meant to make the honored party understand in its full ex- 
tent the favor conferred. But the unreasonable artist, far 
from intimating the least confusion at an attention so little 
to be expected, seemed to consider the distinction as one 
which was naturally paid to the greatest stranger present; 
and when he placed Lady Penelope at the head of the 
table, by Mr. Winterblossom the president, and took a 
chair to himself betwixt her ladyship and Lady Binks, 
the provoking wretch appeared no more sensible of being ex- 
alted above his proper rank in society, than if he had been 
sitting at the bottom of the table by honest Mrs. Blower from 
the Bowhead, who had come to the Well to carry off the 
dregs of the Inflienzie.^ which she scorned to term a surfeit. 

Now this indifference puzzled Lady Penelope’s game ex- 
tremely, and irritated her desire to get at the bottom of Tyrrel’s 
mystery if there was one, and secure him to her own party. If 
you were ever at a watering-place, reader, you know that while the 
guests do not always pay the most polite attention to unmarked 


ST. TOJVAAT'S WELL. 


53 

individuals, the appearance of astray lion makes an interest as 
strong as it is reasonable, and the Amazonian chiefs of each 
coterie, like the hunters of Buenos Ayres, prepare iheir/asso, and 
manoeuvre to the best advantage they can, each hoping to noose 
the unsuspicious monster, and lead him captive to her own 
menagerie. A few words concerning Lady Penelope Pen- 
feather will explain why she practiced this sport with even more 
than common zeal. 

She was the daughter of an earl, possessed a showy person, 
and features which might be called handsome in youth, though 
now rather too much prononces X.o render the term proper. The 
nose was become sharper ; the cheeks had lost the roundness of 
youth ; and as, during fifteen years that she had reigned a beauty 
and a ruling toast, the right man had not spoken, or, at least, 
had not spoken at the right time, her ladyship, now rendered 
sufficiently independent by the inheritance of an old relation, 
spoken in praise of friendship, be^n to dislike the town in 
summer, and to “ babble of green fields.” 

About the time that Lady Penelope thus changed the tenor 
of her life, she was fortunate enough, with Dr. Quackleben’s 
assistance, to find out the virtues of St. Ronan’s spring ; and, 
having contributed her share to establish the Urbs m rure., which 
had risen around it, she sat herself down as leader of the fashions 
in the little province which she had in a great measure both 
discovered and colonized. She was, therefore, justly desirous 
to compel homage and tribute from all who should approach 
the territory. 

In other respects. Lady Penelope pretty much resembled 
the mumerous class she belonged to. She was at bottom a 
well-principled woman, but too thoughtless to let her principles 
control her humor, therefore not scrupulously nice in her 
society. She was good-natured, but capricious and whimsical, 
and willing enough to be kind or generous if it neither thwarted 
her humor, nor cost her much trouble ; would have chaperoned a 
young friend anvwhere, and moved the world for subscription 
tickets : but never troubled herself how much her giddy charge 
flirted, or with whom ; so that, with a numerous class of Misses, 
her ladyship was the most delightful creature in the world. 
Then Lady Penelope had lived so much in society, knew so ex- 
actly when to speak, and how to escape from an embarrassing 
discussion by professing ignorance while she looked intelligence, 
that she was not generally discovered to be a fool, unless when 
she set up for being remarkably clever. This happened more 
frequently of late when, perhaps, as she could not but observe 
that the repairs of the toilette became more necessary, she 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


54 

might suppose that new lights, according to the poet, were 
streaming on her mind through the chinks that Time was making. 
Many of her friends, however, thought that Lady Penelope 
would have better consulted her genius by remaining in medi- 
ocrity, as a fashionable and well-bred woman, than by parading 
her new-founded pretensions to taste and patronage ; but such 
was not her own opinion, and, doubtless, her ladyship was the 
best judge. 

On the other side of Tyrrel sat Lady Links, lately the beau- 
tiful Miss Bonnyrigg, who, during the last season, had made 
the company at the Well alternately admire, smile, and stare, 
by dancing the highest Highland fling, riding the wildest pony, 
laughing the loudest laugh at the broadest joke, and wearing 
the briefest petticoat of any nymph of St. Ronan’s. Few knew 
that this wild, hoydenish, half-mad humor was only superin- 
duced over her real character, for the purpose of — getting well 
married. She had fixed h^ eyes on Sir Bingo, and was aware 
of his maxim, that to catch him, “a girl must be,” in his own 
phrase, “ bang up to everything ; ” and that he would choose a 
wife for the neck-or-nothing qualities which recommend a good 
hunter. She made out her catch-match, and she was miserable. 
Her wild good-humor was entirely an assumed part of her char- 
acter, which was passionate, ambitious, and thoughtful. Deli- 
cacy she had none — she knew Sir Bingo was a brute and a fool, 
even while she was hunting him down ; but she had so far mis- 
taken her own feelings, as not to have expected that when she 
became bone of his bone, she should feel so much shame and 
anger when she saw his folly expose him to be laughed at and 
plundered, or so disgusted when his brutality became intimately 
connected with herself. It is true, he was, on the whole, rather 
an innocent monster; and between bitting and bridling, coax- 
ing and humoring, might have been made to pad on well 
enough. But an unhappy boggling which had taken place 
previous to the declaration of their private marriage, had so 
exasperated her spirits against her helpmate, that modes of 
conciliation were the last she was likely to adopt. Not only 
had the assistance of the Scottish Themis, so propitiously in- 
dulgent to the foibles of the fair, been resorted to on the 
occasion, but even Mars seemed ready to enter upon the tapis, 
if Hymen had not intervened. There was, de par le 7no7ide^ a 
certain brother of the lad}^ — an officer — and, as it happened, 
on leave of absence — who alighted from a hack-chaise at the 
Fox Hotel at eleven o’clock at night, holding in his hand a slip 
of well-dried oak, accompanied by another gentleman, who, 
like himself, wore a military traveling-cap and a black stock ; 


ST. TOATAJV^S WELL, 


55 

out of the said chaise, as was reported by the trusty Toby, were 
handed a small reise-sac, an Andrea FeVrara, and a neat ma- 
hogany box, eighteen inches long, three deep, and some six 
broad. Next morning a solemn palaver (as the natives of 
Madagascar call their national convention) was held at an un- 
usual hour, at which Captain MacTurk and Mr. Mowbray 
assisted ; and the upshot was, that at breakfast the company 
were made happy by the information, that Sir Bingo had been 
for some weeks the happy bridegroom of their general favorite ; 
which union, concealed for family reasons, he was now at 
liberty to acknowledge, and to fly with the wings of love to 
bring his sorrowing turtle from the shades to which she had 
retired till the obstacles to their mutual happiness could be re- 
moved. Now, though all this sounded very smoothly, that 
galless turtle. Lady Binks, could never think of the tenor of 
the proceedings without the deepest feelings of resentment and 
contempt for the principal actor. Sir Bingo. 

Besides all these unpleasant circumstances, Sir Bingo’s 
family h^d refused to countenance her wish that he should 
bring her to his own seat ; and hence a new shock to her pride, 
and new master of contempt against poor Sir Bingo, for being 
ashamed and afraid to face down the opposition of his kinsfolk, 
for whose displeasure, though never attending to any good 
advice from them, he retained a childish awe. 

The manners of the young lady were no less changed than 
was her temper; and, from being much too careless and free, 
were become reserved, sullen, and haughty. A consciousness 
that many scrupled to hold intercourse with her in society, 
rendered her disagreeably tenacious of her rank, and jealous of 
everything that appeared like neglect. She had constituted 
herself mistress of Sir Bingo’s purse ; and, unrestrained in the 
expenses of dress and equipage, chose, contrary to her maiden 
practice, to be rather rich and splendid than gay, and to com- 
mand that attention by magnificence, which she no longer 
deigned to solicit by rendering herself either agreeable or 
entertaining. One secret source of her misery was, the neces- 
sity of showing deference to Lady Penelope Penfeather, whose 
understanding she despised, and whose pretensions to conse- 
quence, to patronage, and to literature, she had acuteness 
enough to see through, and to contemn ; and this dislike was 
the more grievous, that she felt that she depended a good deal 
on Lady Penelope’s countenance for the situation she was able 
to maintain even among the not very select society of St. 
Ronan’s Well ; and that, neglected by her, she must have drop- 
ped lower in the scale even there. Neither was Lady Peneh 


ST. RONAAT’S WELL. 


56 

ope’s kindness to Lady Binks extremely cordial. She partook 
in the ancient and ordinary dislike of single nymphs of a cer- 
tain age, to those who make splendid alliances under their very 
eye — and she more than suspected the secret disaffection 
of the lady. But the name sounded well ; and the style in 
which Lady Binks lived was a credit to the place. So they 
satisfied their mutual dislike with saying a few sharp things to 
each other occasionally, but all under the mask of civility. 

Such was Lady Binks; and yet, being such, her dress, and 
her equipage, and carriages, were the envy of half the Misses 
at the Well, who, while she sat disfiguring with sullenness her 
very lovely face (for it was as beautiful as her shape was 
exquisite), only thought she was proud of having carried hei 
point, and felt herself, with her large fortune and diamond 
bandeau, no fit company for the rest of the party. They gave 
way, therefore, with meekness to her domineering temper, 
though it was not the less tyrannical, that in her maiden state 
of hoydenhood, she had been to some of them an object of 
slight and of censure ; and Lady Binks had not forgotten the 
offences offered to Miss Bonnyrigg. But the fair sisterhood 
submitted to her retaliations, as lieutenants endure the bully- 
ing of a rude and boisterous captain of the sea, with the secret 
determination to pay it home to their underlings when they 
shall become captains themselves. 

In this state of importance, yet of penance, Lady Binks 
occupied her place at the dinner-table, alternately disconcerted 
by some stupid speech of her lord and master, and by some 
slight sarcasm from Lady Penelope, to which she longed to 
reply, but dared not. 

She looked from time to time at her neighbor, Frank Tyrrel, 
but without addressing him, and accepted in silence the usual 
civilities which he proffered to her. She had remarked keenly 
his interview with Sir Bingo, and knowing by experience the 
manner in which her honored lord was wont to retreat from a 
dispute in which he was unsuccessful, as well as his genius for 
getting into such perplexities, she had little doubt that he had 
sustained from the stranger some new indignity ; whom, there- 
fore, she reganled with a mixture of feeling, scarce knowing 
whether to be pleased with him for having given pain to him 
whom she hated, or angry with him for having affronted one 
in whose degradation her own was necessarily involved. There 
might be other thoughts — on the whole, she "regarded him with 
much though with mute attention. He paid her but little in 
return, being almost entirely occupied in replying to the ques- 
tions of the engrossing Lady Penelope Penfeather. 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


57 


Receiving polite though rather evasive answers to her in 
quiries concerning his late avocations, her ladyship could only 
learn that Tyrrel had been traveling in several remote parts of 
Europe, and even of Asia. Baffled, but not repulsed, the lady 
continued her courtesy, by pointing out to him, as a stranger, 
several individuals of the company to whom she proposed in- 
troducing him, as persons from whose society he might derive 
either profit or amusement. In the midst of this sort of con- 
versation, however, she suddenly stopped short. 

“ Will you forgive me, Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, “ if I say I have 
been watching your thoughts for some moments, and that I 
have detected you ? All the while I have been talking of 
these good folks, and that you have been making such civil 
replies, that they might be with great propriety and utility 
inserted in the ‘ Familiar Dialogues, teaching foreigners how 
to express themselves in English upon ordinary occasions ’ — 
your mind has been entirely fixed upon that empty chair, which 
hath remained there opposite betwixt our worthy president and 
Sir Bingo Binks.” 

“ I own, madam,” he answered, “ I was a little surprised at 
seeing such a distinguished seat unoccupied, while the table is 
rather crowded.” 

“ Oh, confess more, sir ! — Confess that to a poet a seat un- 
occupied — the chair of Banquo — has more charms than if it 
were filled even as an alderman would fill it. — What if ‘ the 
Dark Ladye’ * should glide in and occupy it ? — Would you 
have courage to stand the vision, Mr. Tyrrel ? — I assure 
the thing is not impossible.” 

“ W/iat is not impossible. Lady Penelope ? ” said Tyrrel,"' 
somewhat surprised. 

“ Startled already ? — Nay, then I despair of your enduring 
the awful interview.” 

“ What interview ? who is expected ? ” said Tyrrel, unable 
with the utmost exertion to suppress some signs of curiosity, 
though he suspected the whole to be merely some mystification 
of her ladyship. 

“How delighted I am,” she said, “that I have found out 
where you are vulnerable ! — lixpected — ^did I say expected ! — 
no, not expected. 

‘ She glides, like Night, from land to land. 

She hath strange power of speech.’ 

— But come, I have you at my mercy, and I will be generous 
and* explain. — We call — that is, among ourselves, you under- 
* Note C, The Dark Ladye. 




ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


S8 

Stand — Miss Clara Mowbray, the sister of that gentleman that 
sits next to Miss Parker, the Dark Ladye, and that seat is left 
for her. — For she was expected — no, not expected — I forget 
again ! — but it was thought possible she might honor us to- 
day, when our feast was so full and piquant. — Her brother is 
our Lord of the Manor — and so they pay her that sort of civility 
to regard her as a visitor — and neither Lady Binks nor 
I think of objecting — She is a singular young person, Clara 
Mowbray — she amuses me very much — I am always rather 
glad to see her.” 

“ She is not to come hither to-day,” said Tyrrel ; “ am I so 
to understand your Ladyship ? ” 

“ Why, it is past her time — even her time,” said Lady 
Penelope — “ dinner was kept back half-an*hour, and our poor 
invalids were famishing, as you may see by the deeds they have 
done since. — But Clara is an odd creature, and if she took it 
into her head to come hither at this moment, hither she would 
come — she is very whimsical. — -Many people think her hand- 
some — but she looks so like something from another world, that 
she makes me always think of Mat Lewis’s Spectre Lady.” 

And she repeated with much cadence. 

There is a thing — there is a thing, 

I fain would have from thee ; 

I fain would have that gay gold ring, 

O warrior, give it me I ’ 

“ And then you remember his answer : — 

‘This ring Lord Brooke from his daughter took, 

And a solemn oath he swore, 

That that ladye my bride should be 
When this crusade was o’er.’ 

You do figures as well as landscapes, I suppose, Mr. Tyrrel t — 
You shall make a sketch for me — a slight thing — for sketches, 

I think, show the freedom of art better than finished pieces — 

I dote on the first coruscations of genius — flashing like light- 
ning from the cloud ! — You shall make a sketch for my ovv^n > 
boudoir — my dear sulky den at Air Castle, and Clara Mowbray 
shall sit for the Ghost Ladye.” 

“ That would be but a poor compliment to your ladyship’s 
friend,” replied Tyrrel. 

“ Friend ? We don’t get quite that length, though I like 
Clara very well. — Quite sentimental cast of face, — I think I 
saw an antique in the Louvre very like her — (I was there in 
1800) — quite an antique countenance — eyes something hoi- 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


59 


lowed — care has dug caves for them, but they are caves of the 
most beautiful marble arched with jet — a straight nose, and 
absolutely the Grecian mouth and chin — a profusion of long 
straight black hair, with* the whitest skin you ever saw — as 


" of color 
hty, and 
"tailed 
jrely, 
femaic face, 
t the Spring last 
^s not then Lady 
.ear ? ” 

ady Binks, in a tone 
/elonged to so beautiful 


out of 


your reverie, my 


white as the whitest parchment — ar. 
in her cheek — none whatever — -If she \ 
borrow a prudent touch of complexio’ 
beautiful. Even as it is, many think 
Mr. Tyrrel, three colors are necess 
However, we used to call her the Mel 
season, as we called Lady Binks — 

Binks — our Euphrosyne — Did we not 

“ Did we not what, madam } ” sr 
something sharper than ought to ha 
a countenance. ^ 

“I am sorry I have started* y j 
love,” answered Lady Penelope. “ I was only assuring Mr. 
Tyrrel that you were once Euphrosyne, though now so much 
under the banners of II Penseroso.” 

“ I do not know that I have been either one or the other,” 
answered Lady Binks ; “ one thing I certainly am not — I am 
not capable of understanding your ladyship’s wit and learning.” 

“Poor soul,” whispered Lady Penelope to Tyrrel; “we 
know what we are, we know not what we may be. — And now*, 
Mr. Tyrrel, I have been your sibyl to guide you through this 
Elysium of ours, I think, in reward, I deserve a little confi- 
dence in return.” 

“If I had any to bestow, which could be in the slightest 
degree interesting to your ladyship,” answered Tyrrel. 

“ Oh ! cruel man — -he will not understand me ! ” exclaimed 
the lady — “ In plain words, then, a peep into your portfolio- 
just to "see what objects you have rescued from natural decay, 
and rendered immortal by the pencil. You do not know — 
indeed, Mr. Tyrrel, you do not know how I dote upon your 
‘serenely silent art,’ second to poetry alone — -equal — superior 
perhaps — to music.” 

“ I really have little that could possibly be worth the atten- 
tion of such a judge as your ladyship,” answered Tyrrel ; “ such 
trifles as your ladyship has seen, I sometimes leave at the foot 
of the tree I have been sketching.” 

“As Orlando left his verses in the Forest of Ardennes i* — 
Oh, the thoughtless prodigality! — Mr. Winterblossom, do you 
hear this ? — We must follow Mr. Tyrrel in his walks, and glean 
what he leaves behind him.” 

Her ladyship was here disconcerted by some laughter on 


6o 


ST. TOJVAAT^S WELL. 


Sir Bingo’s side of the table, which she chastised by an angry 
glance, and then proceeded emphatically. 

Mr. Tyrrel, this must not be — this is not the way of the 
world, my good sir, to which even Genius must stoop its flight. 
We must ’ graver — though perhaps you etch as 

well as ' 


a wo 
touch. 

‘‘ I will not t 
then,” said Tyrrci, 
good judges ; but i 
“ Say no more,’ 
plished ! — We have loi 
most romantic spots of 


so,” said Mr. Winterblossom, edging in 
“ from the freedom of Mr. Tyrrel’s 


laving spoiled a little copper now and 
I am charged with the crime by such 
nly been by way of experiment.” 
he lady ; “ my darling wish is accom- 
sired to have the remarkable and 
‘it tie Arcadia here — spots consecrat- 
ed to friendship, the fine ai ■ the loves and the graces, immortal- 
ized by the graver’s art, faithful to its charge of fame — you shall 
labor on this task, Mr. Tyrrel ; we will all assist with notes and 
illustrations — we will all contribute — only some of us must be 
permitted to remain anonymous — Fairy favors, you know, Mr. 
Tyrrel, must be kept secret — And you shall be allowed the 
pillage of the Album — some sweet things there of Mr. Chatterly’s 
— and Mr. Edgeit, a gentleman of your own profession, I am 
sure will lend his aid — Dr. Quackleben will contribute some 
scientific notices. — And for subscription 

“ Financial — financial — your leddyship, I speak to order ! ” 
said the writer, interrupting Lady Penelope with a tone of im- 
pudent familiarity, which was meant doubtless for jocular ease. 

“ How am I out of order, Mr. Meiklewham ? ” said her 
ladyship, drawing herself up. 

“ I speak to order ! — No warrants for money can be ex- 
tracted before intimation to the Committee of Management.” 

“ Pray who mentioned money, Mr. Meiklewham 1 ” said her 
ladyship. — “That wretched old pettifogger,” she added in a 
whisper to Tyrrel, “ thinks of nothing else but the fihhy pelf.” 

“Ye spake of subscription, my leddy, whilk is the same 
thing as money, differing only in respect of time — the subscrip- 
tion being a contract de fnturo., and having a tractus tempo7'is in 
greniio — And I have kend mony honest folks in the company at 
the Well complain of the subscriptions as a great abuse, as 
obliging them either to look unlike other folks, or to gie good 
lawful coin for ballants and picture-books, and things they 
caredna a pinch of snuff for.” 

Several of the company, as the lower end of the table, as- 
sented both by nods and murmurs of approbation ; and the 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


6i 


orator was about to proceed, when Tyrrel with difficulty pro- 
cured a hearing before the debate went further, and assured 
the company that her ladyship’s goodness had led her into an 
error ; that he had no work in hand worthy of their patronage, 
and, with the deepest gratitude for Lady Penelope’s goodness, 
had it not in his power to comply with her request. There was 
some tittering at her ladyship’s expense, who, as the writer 
slyly observed, had been something ultronious in her patronage. 
Without attempting for the moment any rally (as indeed the 
time which had passed since the removal of the dinner scarce 
permitted an opportunity). Lady Penelope gave the signal for 
the ladies’ retreat, and left the gentlemen to the circulation of 
the bottle. 


CHAPTER SEVENTH. 

THE TEA-TABLE. 

-While the cups, 

hich cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each. 

COWPER. 

It was common at the Well for the fair guests occasionally 
to give tea to the company, — such at least as, from their rank 
and leading in the little society, might be esteemed fit to con- 
stitute themselves patronesses of an evening ; and the same 
lady generally carried the authority she had acquired into the 
ball-room, where two fiddles and a bass, at a guinea a night, 
with a quafitum sufficit of tallow-candles (against the use of 
which Lady Penelope often mutinied), enabled the company — 
to use the appropriate phrase — “ to close the evening on the 
light fantastic toe.” 

On the present occasion the lion of the hour, Mr. Francis 
Tvrrel, had so little answered the high-wrought expectations of 
Lady Penelope, that she rather regretted having ever given 
herself any trouble about him, and particularly that of having 
manoeuvred herself into the patronage of the tea-table for the 
evening, to the great expenditure of souchong and congo. 
Accordingly, her ladyship had no sooner summoned her own 
woman, and her fille de chambre, to make tea, with her page, 
footman, and postilion, to hand it about (in which duty they 
were assisted by two richly laced and thickly powdered footmen 


62 


ST, ROMANES WELL, 


of Lady Binks’s, whose liveries put to shame the more modest 
garb of Lady Penelope’s, and even dimmed the glory of the 
suppressed coronet upon the buttons), than she began to 
vilipend and depreciate what had been so long the object of 
her curiosity 

“This Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, in a tone of authoritative 
decision, “ seems after all a very ordinary sort of person — quite 
a commonplace man, who, she dared say, had considered his 
condition, in going to the old ale-house, much better than they 
had done for him, when they asked him to the Public Rooms. 
He had known his own place better than they did—there was 
nothing uncommon in his appearance or conversation— nothing 
at 2\\frappant — she scarce believed he could even draw that 
sketch. Mr. Winterblossom, indeed, made a great deal of it ; 
but then all the world knew that every scrap of engraving or 
drawing, which Mr. Winterblossom contrived to make his own, 
was, the instant it came into his collection, the finest thing 
that ever was seen — that was the way with collectors— their 
geese were all swans.” 

“And your ladyship’s swan has proved but a goose my 
dearest Lady Pen,” said Lady Binks. 

“ My swan, dearest Lady Binks ! I really do not know how 
I have deserved the appropriation.” 

“ Do not be angry, my dear Lady Penelope ; I only mean 
that for a fortnight or more you have spoken constantly of this 
Mr. Tyrrel, and all dinner-time you spoke to him.” 

The fair company began to collect around, at hearing the 
word dear so often repeated in the same brief dialogue, which 
induced them to expect sport, and like the vulgar on a similar 
occasion, to form a ring for the expectant combatants. 

“ He sat betwixt us, Lady Binks,” answered Lady Penelope, 
with dignity. “You had your usual headache, you know, and 
for the credit of the company, I spoke for one.” 

“ For two, if yolir ladyship pleases,” replied Lady Binks, 
“ I mean,” she added, softening the expression, “ for yourself 
and me.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Lady Penelope, “ I should have spoken 
for one who can speak so smartly for herself, as my dear Lady 
Binks — I did not by any means desire to engross the conver- 
sation — I repeat it, there is a mistake about this man.” 

“I think there is,” said Lady Binks, in a tone which 
implied something more than mere assent to Lady Penelope’s 
proposition. 

“ I doubt if he is an artist at all,” said the Lady Penelope ; 


ST. KONAN'S WELL. 63 

“ or if he is, he must be doing things for some Magazine, or 
Encyclopaedia, or some such matter.” 

“/doubt too, if he be a professional artist,” said Lady 
Binks. “ If so, he is of the very highest class, for 1 have seldom 
seen a better-bred man.” 

“There are very well-bred artists,” said Lady Penelope. 
“ Ii is the profession of a gentleman.” 

‘ Certainly,” answered Lady Binks ; “ but the poorer class 
have often to struggle with poverty and dependence. In 
general society they are like commercial people in presence of 
their customers ; and that is a difficult part to sustain. And 
so you see them of all sorts — shy and reserved, when they are 
conscious of merit — petulant and whimsical, by way of show- 
ing their independence — intrusive, in order to appear easy — 
and sometimes obsequious and fawning, when they chance to 
be of a mean spirit. But you seldom see them quite at their 
ease, and therefore I hold this Mr. Tyrrel to be either an artist 
of the first class, raised completely above the necessity and 
degradation of patronage, or else to be no professional artist 
at all.” 

Lady Penelope looked at Lady Binks with much such a 
regard as Balaam may have cast upon his ass, when he dis* 
covered the animal’s capacity for holding an argument with 
him. She muttered to herself : — ■ 

“ Moil due parle^ et meme il parle bien ! ” 

But declining the altercation which Lady Binks seemed 
disposed to enter into, she replied with good humor, “ Well, 
dearest Rachel, we will not pull caps about this man — nay, I 
think your good opinion of him gives him new value in my 
eyes. That is always the way with us, my good friend ! We 
may confess it, when there are none of these conceited male 
wretches among us. We will know what he really is — he shall 
not wear fern-seed, and walk among us invisible thus — what 
say you, Maria .? ” 

“ Indeed, I say, dear Lady Penelope,” answered Miss Digges, 
whose ready chatter we have already introduced to the reader, 
“he is a very handsome man, though his nose is too big, and 
his mouth too wide — but his teeth are like pearl — and he has 
such eyes ! — especially when your ladyship spoke to him. I 
don’t think you looked at his eyes — they are quite deep and 
dark, and full of glow, like what you read to us in the letter, 
from that lady, about Robert Burns.” 

“Upon my word, miss, you come on finely,” said Lady 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


64 

Penelope. — “ One had need take care what they read or talk 
about before you, I see — Come, Jones, have mercy upon us — 
put an end to that symphony of tinkling cups and saucers, and 
let the first act of the tea-table begin, if you please.” 

“ Does her ledd3'ship mean the grace,” said honest Mrs. 
Blower, for the first time admitted into this worshipful society, 
and busily employed in arranging an Indian handkerchief, that 
might have make a mainsail for one of her husband’s smuggling 
luggers, which she spread carefully on her knee, to prevent 
damage to a flowered black silk gown from the repast of tea 
and cake, to which she proposed to do due honor, — “ Does her 
leddvship mean the grace I see the minister is just coming 
in.— Her leddyship waits till ye say a blessing, an ye please, 
sir.” 

Mr. Winterblossom, who toddled after the chaplain, his toe 
having given him an alert hint to quit the dining-table, though 
he saw every feature in the poor woman’s face swollen with 
desire to procure information concerning the ways and ciistcms 
of the place, passed on the other side of the way, regardless of 
her agony of curiosity. 

A moment after she was relieved by the entrance of Dr. 
Quackleben, whose maxim being that one patient was as well 
worth’attention as another, and who knew by experience, that 
the hono 7 -aria of a godly wife of the Bow-head were as apt to 
be forthcoming (if not more so), as my Lady Penelope’s, he 
e’en sat himself quietly down by Mrs. Blower, and ]3roceeded 
with the utmost kindness to inquire after her healih, and to 
hope she had not forgotten taking a table-spoonful of spirits 
burnt to a residiiu?n.^ in order to qualify the crudities. 

“Indeed, Doctor,” said the honest woman, “I loot the 
brandy burn as lang as I dought look at the gude creature 
w^astin its sell that gate — and then, when I was fain to put it 
out for very thrift, I did take a thimbleful of it (although it is 
not the thing I am used to, Dr. Quackleben), and I winna say 
but that it did me good.” 

“ Unquestionably, madam,” said the Doctor. “ I am no 
friend to the use of alcohol in general, but there are particular 
cases — there are particular cases, Mrs. Blower — My venerated 
instructor, one of the greatest men in our profession that ever 
lived, took a wine-glassful of old rum, mixed with sugar, every 
day after his dinner.” 

“ Ay ? dear heart, he would be a comfortable doctor that,” 
said Mrs. Blower. “ He wad maybe ken something of my case. 
Is he living, think ye, sir ? ” 

“ Dead for many years, madam,” said Dr. Quackleben ; 


ST. TONAA'^S WELL. 


65 

** and there are but few of his pupils that can fill his place, I 
assure ye. If I could be thought an exception, it is only be- 
cause I was a favorite. Ah ! blessings on the old red cloak of 
him ! — It covered more of the healing science than the gowns 
of a whole modern university.” 

“ There is ane, sir,” said Mrs. Blower, “ that has been muckle 
recommended about Edinburgh — Macgregor, I think they ca’ 
him — folk come far and near to see him.” * 

“ I know who you mean, ma’am — a clever man — no denying 
it — a clever man — but there are certain cases — yours, for ex- 
ample — and I think that of many that come to drink this 
water — which I cannot say I think he perfectly understands — 
hasty — very hasty and rapid. Now 1 — I give the disease its 
owm way at first — then watch it, Mrs. Blower — watch the turn 
of the tide.” 

“Ah, troth, that’s true,” responded the widow; “John 
Blower was aye watching turn of tide, puir man.” 

“ Then he is a starving’ Doctor, Mrs. Blow'er — reduces 
diseases as soldiers do towuis — by famine, not considering that 
the friendly inhabitants suffer as much as the hostile garrison 
— ahem ! ” 

Here he gave an important and emphatic cough, and then 
proceeded. 

“ I am no friend either to excess or to violent stimulus, 
Mrs. Blower — but nature must be supported — a generous diet 
— cordials judiciously thrown in — not without the advice of a 
medical man — that is my opinion, Mrs. Blower, to speak as a 
friend — others may starve their patients if they have a mind.” 

“ It wadna do for me, the starving, Dr. Keekerben,” said 
the alarmed relict, — “ it wadna do for me at a’ — Just a’ I can do 
to wear through the day with the sma’ supports that nature re- 
quires — not a soul to look after me, Doctor, since John Blower 
was ta’en awa. — Thank ye kindly, sir,” (to the servant who 
handed the tea), — “ thank ye, my bonny man” (to the page who 
served the calvc) — •* Now, dinna ye think. Doctor” (in a low 
and confidential voice), “ that her leddyship’s tea is rather of 
the weakliest — water bewitched, I think — and Mrs. Jones, as 
they ca’ her, has cut the seed-cake very thin ? ’ 

“ It is the fashion, Mrs. Blower,” answered Dr. Quackleben ; 
“ and her ladyship’s tea is excellent. But your taste is a little 
chilled, which is not uncommon at the first use of the waters, 
so that you are not sensible of the flavor — we must support the 

* The late Dr. Gregory is probably intimated, as one of the celebrated 
Dr. Cullun’s personal habits is previously mentioned. Dr. Gregory was 
distinguished for putting his patients on a severe regimen. 


66 


* 5 - 7 : RONAN’S WELL, 


system — we reinforce the digestive powers — give me leave — • 
you are a stranger, Mrs. Blower, and must take care of you 
— I have an elixir which will put that matter to rights in a 
moment.” 

So saying, Dr. Quackleben pulled from his pocket a small 
portable case of medicines — “ Catch me without my tools” — he 
said ; “ here I have the real useful pharmacopoeia — the rest is 
all humbug and hard names — this little case, with a fortnight 
or month, spring and fall, at St. Ronan’s Well, and no one will 
die till his day come.” 

Thus boasting, the Doctor drew from his case a large vial 
or small flask, full of a high-colored liquid, of which he mixed 
three tea-spoonfuls in Mrs. Blower’s cup, who immediately 
afterward allowed that the flavor was improved beyond all 
belief, and that it was “ vera comfortable and restorative 
indeed.” 

“ Will it not do good to my complaints. Doctor ? ” said 
Mr. Winterblossom, vdio had strolled toward them, and held 
out his cup to the physician. 

“ I by no means recommend it, Mr. Winterblossom,” said 
Dr. Quackleben, shutting up his case with great coolness ; 
“ your case is cedematous, and you treat it your own way — you 
are as good a physican as I am, and I never interfere with 
another practitioner’s patient.” 

“ Well, Doctor,” said Winterblossom, “ I must wait till Sir 
Bingo comes in — he has a hunting-flask usually about him, 
which contains as good medicine as yours to the full.” 

“ You will wait for Sir Bingo some time,” said the Doctor, 
“ he is a gentleman of sedentary habits, — he has ordered 
another magnum.” 

“ Sir Bingo is an unco name for a man o’ quality, dinna ye 
think sae. Dr. Cocklehen ” said Mrs. Blower. “John Blower, 
when he was a wee bit in the wind’s eye, as he ca’d it, puir 
fallow — used to sing a sang about a dog they ca’d Bingo, that 
suld hae belanged to a farmer.” 

“ Our Bingo is but a puppy yet, madam — or if a dog he is a 
sad dog,” said Mr. Winterblossom, applauding his own wit by 
one of his own inimitable smiles. 

“ Or a mad dog, rather,” said Mr. Chatterly, “for he drinks 
no water,” and he also smiled gracefully at the thoughts of 
having trumped, as it were, the president’s pun 

“ Twa pleasant men, Doctor,” said the widow, “ and so is 
Sir Bungy too, for that matter ; but oh ! is nae it a pity he 
should bide sae lang by the bottle .? It was puir John Blower’s 
faut too, that weary tippling ; when he wan to the lee-side of 


ST. TO.VAAT’S WELL. 


67 

a bowl of punch there was nae raising him. — But they are* 
taking awa the things, and, Doctor, is it not an awfu thing, 
that the creature-comforts should hae been used without grace 
or thanksgiving ? — that Mr. Chitterling, if he really be a minis- 
er, has muckle to answer for, that he neglects his Master’s 
service.” 

“ Why, madam,” said the Doctor, “ Mr. Chatterly is scarce 
arrived at the rank of a minister plenipotentiary.” 

“ A minister potentiary — ah. Doctor, I doubt that is some 
jest of yours,” said the widow ; “ that’s sae like puir John 
Blower. When I wad hae had him gie up the Lovely Peggy, 
ship and cargo (the vessel was named after me. Dr. Kittle- 
ben), to be remembered in the prayers o’ the congregation, he 
wad say to me, ‘ They may pray that stand the risk, Peggy 
Bryce, for I’ve made insurance.’ He was a merry man. Doctor; 
but he had the root of the matter in him, for a’ his light way 
of speaking, as deep as ony skipper that ever loosed anchor 
from Leith Roads. I hae been a forsaken creature since his 
death — Oh the weary days and nights that I have had ! — and 
the weight on the spirits — the spirits, Doctor ! — though I canna 
sa}?- I hae been easier since I hae been at the Wall than even now 
— if I kend what I was awing 3*011 for elickstir. Doctor, for it’s 
done me muckle heart’s good, forby the opening of my mind 
to you 1 ” 

“ Fie, fie, ma’am,” said the Doctor, as the widow pulled out 
a sealskin pouch, such as sailors carry tobacco in, but appa- 
rently well stuffed with bank-notes, — “ Fie, fie, madam — I am 
no apothecary — I have my diploma from Le3Tlen — a regular 
ph}'sician, madam, — the elixir is heartily at your service ; and 
should you want any advice, no man will be prouder to assist 
you than }'Our humble servant.” 

“ 1 am sure I am muckle obliged to 3^our kindness. Dr. 
Kickalpin,” said the widow, folding up her pouch ; “ this was 
puir John Blower’s spleucha 7 i* as they ca’ it — I e’en wear it 
for his sake. He was a kind man, and left me comfortable in 
warld’s gudes ; but comforts hae their cumbers, — to be a lone 
woman is a sair weird. Dr. Kittlepin.” 

Dr. Quackleben drew his chair a little nearer that of the 
widow, and entered into a closer communication with her, in a 
tone doubtless of more delicate consolation than was fit for the 
ears of the company at large. 

One of the chief delights of a watering-place is, that every 
one’s affairs seem to be put under the special surveillance of 


* A fur pouch for keeping tobacco. 


68 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


the whole company, so that, in all probability, the various 
flirtations, liaisons, and so forth, which naturally take place in 
the society, are not only the subject of amusement to the parties 
engaged, but also to the lookers on ; that is to say, generally 
speaking, to the whole community, of which for the time the 
said parties are members. Lady Penelope, the presiding god- 
dess of the region, watchful over all her circle, was not long 
of observing that the Doctor seemed to be suddenly engaged 
in close communication with the widow, and that he had even 
ventured to take hold of her fair plump hand, with a manner 
which partook at once of the gallant suitor, and of the medical 
adviser. 

“ For the love of Heaven,” said her ladyship, “ who can that 
comely dame be, on whom our excellent and learned Doctor 
looks with such uncommon regard ? ” 

“ Fat, fair, and forty,” said Mr. Winterblossom ; “ that is all 
I know of her — a mercantile person.” 

“ A carrack. Sir President,” said the chaplain, “ richly laden 
with colonial produce, by name the Lovely Peggy Bryce — no 
master — the late John Blower of North Leith having pushed 
off his boat for the Stygian Creek, and left the vessel without 
a hand on board.” 

“ The Doctor,” said Lady Penelope, turning her glass to- 
ward them, “seems willing to play the part of pilot.” 

“ I dare say he will be willing to change her name and 
register,” said Mr. Chatterly. 

“ He can be no less in common requital,” said Winter- 
blossom. “ She has changed his name six times in the five minutes 
that I stood within hearing of them.” 

“ What do you think of the matter, my dear Lady Binks ? ” 
said Lady Penelope. 

“ Madam ? ” said Lady Binks, starting from a reverie, and 
answering as one who either had not heard, or did not under- 
stand the question. 

“ I mean, what think you of what is going on yonder ? ” 

Lady Binks turned her glass in the direction of Lady Pe- 
nelope’s glance, fixed the widow and the Doctor with one bold 
fashionable stare, and then, dropping her hand slowly, said with 
indifference, “ I really see nothing there worth thinking about.” 

“ I dare say it is a fine thing to be married,” said Lady 
Penelope ; “ one’s thoughts, I suppose, are so much engrossed 
with one’s own perfect happiness, that they have neither time 
nor inclination to laugh like other folk. Miss Rachel Bonny- 
rigg would have laughed till her eyes ran over, had she seen 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 69 

what Lady Binks cares so little about — I dare say it must be 
an all-sufficient happiness to be married.” 

^ “ He would be a happy man that could convince your lady- 
ship of that in good earnest,” said Mr. Winterblossom. 

“ Oh, who knows — the whim may strike me,” replied the 
lady ; “ but no — no — no; — and that is three times.” 

“ Say it sixteen times more,” said the gallant president, 
and let nineteen nay-says be a grant.” 

“ If I should say a thousand Noes, there exists not the 
alchemy in living man that could extract one Yes out of the 
whole mass,” said her ladyship. “ Blessed be the memory of 
Queen Bess ! — She set us all an example to keep power when 
we have it — What noise is that 1 ” 

“ Only the usual after-dinner quarrel,” said the divine. “ I 
hear the Captain’s voice, else most silent, commanding them to 
keep peace, in the devil’s name, and that of the ladies.” 

“ Upon my word, dearest Lady Binks, this is too bad of that 
lord and master of yours, and of Mowbray, who might have 
more sense, and of the rest of that claret-drinking set, to be 
quarreling and alarming our nerves every evening with pre- 
senting their pistols perpetually at each other, like sportsmen 
confined to the house upon a rainy 12th of August. I am tired 
of the Peace-maker — he but skins the business over in one case 
to have it break out elsewhere. — What think you, love, if we 
were to give out in orders, that the next quarrel which may 
arise, shall be bona fide fought to an end ? — We will all go 
out and see it, and wear the colors on each side ; and if there 
should be a funeral come of it, we will attend it in a body. — 
Weeds are so becoming ! — Are they not, my dear Lady Binks } 
Look at Widow Blower in her deep black — don’t you envy her, 
my love } ” 

Lady Binks seemed about to make a sharp and hasty answer, 
but checked herself, perhaps under the recollection that she 
could not prudently come to an open breach with Lady Pe- 
nelope. — At the same moment a door opened, and a lady dressed 
in a riding-habit, and wearing a black veil over her hat, appeared 
at the entry of the apartment. 

“ Angels and ministers of grace ! ” exclaimed Lady Penelope, 
with her very best tragic start — “ My dearest Clara, why so late ? 
and why thus } Will you step to my dressing-room — Jones will 
get you one of my gowns — we are just of a size, you know — do, 
pray — let me be vain of something of my own for once, by see- 
ing vou wear it.” 

This was spoken in the tone of the fondest female friend- 
ship, and at the same time, the fair hostess bestowed on Miss 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


70 

Mowbray one of those tender caresses, which ladies — God bless 
them ! — sometimes bestow on each other with unnecessary 
prodigality, to the great discontent and envy of the male spec- 
tators. 

“ You are fluttered, my dearest Clara — you are feverish — I 
am sure you are,” continued the sweetly anxious Lady Pe- 
nelope ; “ let me persuade you to lie down.” 

“ Indeed you are mistaken. Lady Penelope,” said Miss 
Mowbray, who seemed to receive much as a matter of course 
her ladyship’s profusion of affectionate politeness : — “ I am 
heated, and my pony trotted hard, that is the whole mystery. — - 
Let me have a cup of tea, Mrs. Jones, and the matter is ended.” 

“ Fresh tea, Jones, directly,” said Lady Penelope, and led 
her passive friend to her own corner, as she was pleased to call 
the recess in which she held her little court — ladies and gen- 
tleman courtesying and bowing as she passed ; to which civil- 
ities the new guest made no more return than the most ordinary 
politeness rendered unavoidable. 

Lady Binks did not rise to receive her, but sat upright in 
her chair, and bent her head very stiffly ; a courtesy which Miss 
Mowbray returned in the same stately manner without further 
greeting on either side. 

“Now, wha can that be. Doctor ? ” said the Widow Blower 
— “ mind ye have promised to tell me all about the grand folk 
— wha can that be that Leddy Penelope hands such a racket 
wi’ — and what for does she come wi’ a habit and a beaver-hat, 
when we are a’ (a glance at her own gown) in our silks and 
satins ? ” 

“ To tell you who she is, my dear Mrs. Blower, is very easy,” 
said the officious Doctor. “ She is Miss Clara Mowbray, sister 
to the Lord of the Manor — the gentleman who wears the green 
coat, with an arrow on the cape. To tell why she wears that 
habit, or does anything else, would be rather beyond doctor’s 
skill. Truth is, I have always thought she was a little — a very 
little — touched — call it nerves — hypochondria — or what you 
will.” 

“ Lord help us, puir thing ! ” said the compassionate widow. 
— “ And troth it looks like it. But it’s a shame to let her go 
loose, doctor — she might hurt hersell, or somebody. See she has 
ta’en the knife ! — Oh, it’s only to cut a shave of the diet-loaf. 
She winna let the powder-monkey of a boy help her. There’s 
judgment in that though. Doctor, for she can cut thick or thin 
as she likes. — Dear me ! she has not taken mair than a crumb, 
that ane would pit between the wires of a canary-bird’s cage, 
after all. — I wish she would lift up that lang veil, or put aff that 


ST. TOJVAJV'S WELL. 


n 

riding skirt, Doctor. She should really be showed the regula- 
tions, Doctor Kickleshin.” 

“ She cares about no rules we can make, Mrs. Blower,'’ said 
the Doctor ; “ and her brother’s will and pleasure, and Lady 
Penelope’s whim of indulging her, carry her through in every- 
thing. They should take advice on her case.” 

“ Ay, truly it’s time to take advice, when young creatures 
like her caper in amang dressed leddies, just as if they were 
come from scampering on Leith sands. — Such a wark as my 
lecldy makes wi’ her. Doctor ! Ye would think they were baith 
fools of a feather.” 

“ They might have flown on one wing, for what I know,” 
said Dr. Quackleben ; “ but there was early and sound advice 
taken in Lady Penelope’s case. My friend, the late Earl of 
Featherhead, was a man of judgment — did little in his family 
but by rule of medicine — so that, what with the waters, and 
what with my own care, Lady Penelope is only freakish — 
fanciful — that’s all — and her quality bears it out — the peccant 
principle might have broken out under other treatment.” 

“ Ay — she has been weel-friended,” said the widow but 
this bairn Mowbray, puir thing ! how came she to be sae left 
to hersell ? ” 

“ Her mother was dead — her father thought of nothing but 
his sports,” said the Doctor. “ Her brother was educated in 
England, and cared for nobody but himself, if he had been here. 
What education she got was at her own hand — what reading 
she read was in a library full of old romances — what friends or 
company she had was what chance sent her — then no family- 
physician, not even a good surgeon within ten miles I And so 
you cannot wonder if the poor thing became unsettled ! ” 

“ Puir thing ! — no doctor ! — nor even a surgeon ! — But, 
Doctor,” said the widow, “ maybe the puir thing had the enjoy- 
ment of her health ye ken, and then ” — — 

‘‘ Aha } ha, ha ! — why ///^«, madam, she needed a physician 
far more than if she had been delicate. A skilful physician, 
Mrs. Blower, knows how to bring down that robust health, 
which is a very alarming state of the frame W'hen it is con- 
sidered secundum artem. Most sudden deaths happen when 
people are in a robust state of health. Ah ! that state of per- 
fect health is what the doctor dreads most on behalf of his 
patient.” 

“ Ay, ay. Doctor ! — I am quite sensible, nae doubt,” said 
the widow, ‘‘ of the great advantage of having a skeelfu’ person 
about ane.” 

Here the Doctor’s voice, in his earnestness to convince Mrs. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


72 

Blower of the danger of supposing herself capable of living and 
breathing without a medical man’s permission, sunk into a soft 
pleading tone, of which our reporter could not catch the sound. 
He was, as great orators will sometimes be, “ inaudible in the 
gallery.” 

Meanwhile, Lady Penelope overwhelmed Clara Mowbray 
with her caresses. In what degree her ladyship, at her heart, 
loved this young person, might be difficult to ascertain, — prob- 
ably in the degree in which a child loves a favorite toy. But 
Clara was a toy not always to be come by — as whimsical in her 
way as her ladyship in her own, only that poor Clara’s singu- 
larities were real, and her ladyship’s chiefly affected. Without 
adopting the harshness of the Doctor’s conclusions concerning 
the former, she was certainly unequal in her spirits ; and her 
occasional fits of levity were checkered by very long intervals 
of sadness. Her levity also appeared, in the world’s eye, 
greater than it really was ; for she had never been under the 
restraint of society which was really good, and entertained an 
undue contempt for that which she sometimes mingled with ; 
having unhappily none to teach her the important truth, that 
some forms and restraints are to be observed, less in respect 
to others than to ourselves. Her dress, her manners, and her 
ideas, were therefore very much her own ; and though they be- 
came her wonderfully, yet, like Ophelia’s garlands, and wild 
snatches of melody, they were calculated to excite compassion 
and melancholy, even while they amused the observer. 

And why came you not to dinner ? — We expected you — 
your throne was prepared ? ” 

“ I had scarce come to tea,” said Miss Mowbray, “ of my 
own free will. But my brother says your ladyship proposes to 
come to Shaws Castle, and he insisted it was quite right and 
necessary, to confirm you in so flattering a purpose, that I 
should come and say. Pray do. Lady Penelope ; and so now 
here am I to say. Pray, do come.” 

“ Is an invitation so flattering limited to me alone, my dear 
Clara ? — Lady Binks will be jealous.” 

“ Bring Lady Binks, if she has the condescension to honor 
us ” — [a bow was very stiffly exchanged between the ladies] — 
“ bring Mr. Springblossom — Winterblossom — and all the lions 
and lionesses — we have room for the whole collection. My 
brother, I suppose, will bring his own particular regiment of 
bears, which, with the usual assortment of monkeys seen in all 
caravans, will complete the menagerie. How you are to be 
entertained at Shaws Castle, is, I thank Heaven, not my busi- 
ness, but John’s.” 


ST. RONAA^'S WELL. 


73 

“ We shall want no formal entertainment, my love,” said 
Lady Penelope ; a d^jeiiiier d la fourchette — we know Clara, 
you would die of doing the honors of a formal dinner.” 

“ Not a bit ; I should live long enough to make my will, and 
bequeath all large parties to Old Nick, who invented them.” 

“ Miss Mowbray,” said Lady Binks, who had been thwarted 
by this free-spoken young lady, both in her former character of 
a coquette and romp, and in that of a prude which she at present 
wore — “ Miss Mowbray declares for 

‘Champagne and a chicken at last.’ ” 

The chicken, without the champagne, if you please,” said 
Miss Mowbray ; “ I have known ladies pay dear to have cham- 
pagne on the board. — By the by. Lady Penelope, you have not 
your collection in the same order and discipline as Pidcock and 
Polito. There was much growling and snarling in the lower 
den when I passed it.” 

“ It was feeding time, my love,” said Lady Penelope ; “ and 
the lower animals of every class become pugnacious at that 
hour — you see all our safer and well-conditioned animals are 
loose, and in good order.” 

“ Oh, yes — in the keeper’s presence, you know — Well, I 
must venture to cross the hall again among all that growling 
and grumbling — I would I had the fairy prince’s quarters of 
mutton to toss among them if they should break out — He, I 
mean, who fetched water from the Fountain of Lions. How- 
ever, on second thoughts, I will take the back way, and avoid 
them. — What says honest Bottom i’ — 

‘ For if they should as lions come in strife 
Into such place, ’twere pity of their life.’ ” 

“ Shall I go with you, my dear ? ” said Lady Penelope. 

“ No — I have too great a soul for that — I think some of 
them are lions only as far as the hide is concerned.” 

“ But why would you go so soon, Clara ? ” 

“ Because my errand is finished — have I not invited you and 
yours and would not Lord Chesterfield himself allow I have 
done the polite thing ? ” 

“ But you have spoken to none of the company — how can 
you be so odd, my love } ” said her ladyship. 

“ Why, I spoke to them all when I spoke to you and Lady 
Binks — but I am a good girl, and will do as I am bid.” 

So saying, she looked round the company, and addressed 


74 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


each of them with an affectation of interest and politeness, which 
thinly concealed scorn and contempt. 

“ Mr. Winterblossom, I hope the gout is better — Mr. Robert 
Rymar — (I have escaped calling him Thomas for once) — I hope 
the public give encouragement to the muses — Mr.Keelavine, I 
trust your pencil is busy — Mr. Chatterly, I have no doubt your 
flock improves — Dr. Quackleben, I am sure your patients 
recover. — These are all the especials of the worthy company 
I know — for the rest, health to the sick, and pleasure to the 
healthy.’’ 

“ You are not going in reality, my love ? ” said Lady Penel- 
ope ; “ these hasty rides agitate your nerves — they do, indeed 
— you should be cautious — Shall I speak to Quackleben ? ” 

“ To neither quack nor quackle, on my account, my dear 
lady. It is not as you would seem to say, by your winking at 
Lady Sinks — it is not, indeed — I shall be no Lady Clementina, 
to be the wonder and pity of the spring of St. Ronan’s — No 
Ophelia neither — though I will say with her, Good-night, ladies 
— Good-night, sweet ladies ! — and now — not my coach, my 
coach — But my horse, my horse ! ” 

So saying, she tripped out of the room by a side passage, 
leaving the ladies looking at each other significantly, and shak- 
ing their heads with an expression of much import. 

“ Something has ruffled the poor unhappy girl,” said Lady 
Penelope ; “ I never saw her so very odd before.” 

Were I to speak my mind,” said Lady Binks, “ I think, as 
Mrs. Highmore says in the farce, her madness is but a poor ex- 
cuse for her impertinence.” 

“ Oh fie ! my sweet Lady Binks,” said Lady Penelope, 
** spare my poor favorite ! You, surely, of all others, should for- 
give the excesses of an amiable eccentricity of temper. — For- 
give me, my love, but I must defend an absent friend — My 
Lady Binks, I am very sure, is too generous and candid to 

‘ Mate for arts which caused herself to rise.’ 

“ Not being conscious of any high elevation, my lady,” an- 
swered Lady Binks, “ I do not know any arts I have been under 
the necessity of practicing to attain it. I suppose a Scotch lady 
of an ancient family may become the wife of an English baronet, 
and no very extraordinary great cause to wonder at it.” 

“ No, surely — but people in this world will, you know, 
wonder at nothing,” answ'ered Lady Penelope. 

“ If you envy me my poor quiz. Sir Bingo, I’ll get you a 
better. Lady Pen.” 


.97: JWxVAN\S WELL. 


75 

“ I don’t doubt your talents, my dear ; but when I want one, 
I will get one for myself. — But here comes the whole party of 
quizzes. — Joliffe, offer the gentlemen tea — then get the floor 
ready for the dancers, and set the card-tables in the next 
room.” 


CHAPTER EIGHTH. 

AFTER DINNER. 

They draw the cork, they broach the barrel. 

And first they kiss, and then they quarrel. 

Prior. 

If the reader had attended much to the manners of the 
canine race, he may have remarked the very different manner 
in which the individuals of the different sexes carry on their 
quarrels among each other. The females are testy, petulant, 
and very apt to indulge their impatienf dislike of each other’s 
presence, or the spirit of rivalry which it produces, in a sudden 
bark and snap, which last is generally made as much at advan- 
tage as possible. But these ebullitions of peevishness lead to 
no very serious or prosecuted conflict ; the affair begins and 
ends in a moment. Not so the ire of the male dogs, which, 
once produced, and excited by growls of mutual offence and 
defiance, leads generally to a fierce and obstinate contest ; in 
which, if the parties be dogs of game, and well-matched, they 
grapple, throttle, roll each other in the kennel, and can only be 
separated by choking them with their own collars, till they 
lose wind and hold at the same time, or by surprising them 
out of their wrath by sousing them with cold water. 

The simile, though a currish one, will hold good in its appli- 
cation to the human race. While the ladies in the tea-room 
of the Fox Hotel were engaged in the light snappish velitation, 
or skirmish, which we have described, the gentlemen who 
remained in the parlor were more than once like to have 
quarreled more seriously. 

We have mentioned the weighty reasons which induced Mr. 
Mowbray to look upon the stranger, whom a general invitation 
had brought into their society, with unfavorable prepossessions ; 
aad these were far from being abated by the demeanor of 
Tyrrel, which, though perfectly well bred, indicated a sense of 


ST. TOJVAJV’S WELL. 


76 

equality, which the young Laird of St. Ronan’s considered as 
extremely presumptuous. 

As for Sir Bingo, he already began to nourish the genuine 
hatred always entertained by a mean spirit against an antago- 
nist before whom it is conscious of having made a dishonor- 
able retreat. He forgot not the manner, look, and tone, with 
which Tyrrel had checked his unauthorized intrusion ; and 
though he had sunk beneath it at the moment, the recollection 
rankled in his heart as an affront to be avenged. As he drank 
his wine, courage, the want of which was, in his more sober 
moments, a check upon his bad temper, began to inflame his 
malignity, and he ventured upon several occasions to show his 
spleen, hy contradicting Tyrrel more flatly than good manners 
permitted upon so short an acquaintance, and without any 
provocation. Tyrrel saw his ill humor, and despised it, as that 
of an overgrown schoolboy, whom it was not worth his while 
to answer according to his folly. 

One of the apparent causes of the Baronet’s rudeness was 
indeed childish enough. The company were talking of shoot- 
ing, the most animating topic of conversation among Scottish 
country gentlemen of the younger class, and Tyrrel had men- 
tioned something of a*favorite setter, an uncommonly hand- 
some dog, from which he had been for some time separated, 
but which he expected would rejoin him in the course of 
next week. 

“ A setter ! ” retorted Sir Bingo, with a sneer ; “ a pointer, 
I suppose you mean ! ” 

“ No, sir,” said Tyrrel ; “ I am perfectly aware of the 
difference betwixt a setter and a pointer, and I know the 
old-fashioned setter is become unfashionable among modern 
sportsmen. But I love my dog as a companion, as well as 
for his merits in the field ; and a setter is more sagacious, 
more attached, and fitter for his place on the hearth-rug, than 
a pointer — not,” he added, “ from any deficiency of intellects 
on the pointer’s part, but he is generally so abused while in 
the management of brutal breakers and grooms, that he loses 
all excepting his professional accomplishments, or finding and 
standing steady to game.” 

“ And who the d — 1 desires he should have more ? ” said 
Sir Bingo. 

‘‘ Many people, Sir Bingo,” replied Tyrrel, “ have been of 
opinion, that both dogs and men may follow sport indifferently 
well, though they do happen, at the same time, to be fit for 
mixing in friendly intercourse in society.” 

“ That is, for licking trenchers, and scratching copper, I 


ST. KONAN^S WELL. 


77 

suppose,” said the Baronet sotfo voce ; and added, in a louder 
and more distinct tone, — “ He never before heard that a setter 
was fit to follow any man’s heels but a poacher’s.” 

“ You know it now then. Sir Bingo,” answered Tyrrel ; 
“ and I hope you will not fall into so great a mistake again.” 

The Peace-maker here seemed to think his interference 
necessary, and, surmounting his taciturnity, made the following 
pithy speech ; — “ By Cot ! and do you see, as you are looking 
for my opinion, I think there is no dispute in the matter — 
because, by Cot ! it occurs to me, d’ye see, that ye are both 
right, by Cot ! It may do fery well for my excellent friend Sir 
Bingo, who hath stables, and kennels, and what not, to main- 
tain the six filthy brutes that are yelping and yowling all the 
tay, and all the neight too, under my window, by Cot ! — And 
if they are yelping and yowling there, may I never die, but I 
wish they were yelping and yowling somewhere else. But 
then there is many a man who may be as cood achentleman at 
the bottom as my worthy friend Sir Bingo, though it may be 
that he is poor ; and if he is poor — and as if it might be my 
own case, or that of this honest chentleman, Mr. Tirl, is that 
a reason or a law, that he is not to keep a prute of a tog, to 
help him to take his sports and his pleasures ? and if he has 
not a stable or a kennel to put the crature into, must he not 
keep it in his pit of ped-room, or upon his parlor hearth, seeing 
that Luckie Dods would make the kitchen too hot for the paist 
— and so, if Mr. Tirl finds a setter more fitter for his purpose 
than a pointer, by Cot, I know no law against it, else may I 
never die the black death.” 

If this oration appear rather long for the occasion, the 
reader must recollect that Captain MacTurk had in all prob- 
ability the trouble of translating it from the periphrastic lan- 
guage of Ossian, in which it was originally conceived in his own 
mind. 

The Man of Law replied to the Man of Peace, “ Ye are 
mistaken for ance in your life. Captain, for there is a law 
against setters ; and I will undertake to prove them to be the 
‘ lying dogs’ which are mentioned in the auld Scots statute, and 
which all and sundry are discharged to keep, under a penalty 
of ” 

Here the Captain broke in, with a very solemn mien and 
dignified manner — “ By Cot ! Master Meiklewham, and I shall 
be asking what you mean by talking to me of peing mistaken 
and apout lying togs, sir — pecause I would have you to know, 
and to pelieve, and to very well consider, that I never was 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


78 

mistaken in my life, sir, unless it was when I took you for a 
chentleman.” 

“ No offence, Captain,” said Mr. Meiklewham ; “ dinna 
break the wand of peace, man, you that should be the first to 
keep it. He is as cankered,” continued the Man of Law, apart 
to his patron, “ as an auld Hieland terrier, that snaps at what- 
ever comes near it — but I tell you ae thing, St. Ronan’s, and 
that is on saul and conscience, that I believe this is the very 
lad Tirl, that I raised a summons against before the justices — 
him and another hempie — in your father’s time, for shooting on 
the Springwell-head muirs.” 

“ The devil you did, Mick ! ” replied the Lord of the Manor, 
also aside ; — “ Well I am obliged to you for giving me some 
reason for the ill thoughts I had of him — I knew' he w:^s some 
trumpery scamp — I’ll blow him, by ” 

“ Whisht — stop — hush — hand your tongue, St. Ronan’s — 
keep a calm sough — ye see, I intented the process, by your 
worthy father’s desire, before the Quarter Sessions — but I ken 
na — The auld sheriff-clerk stood the lad’s friend — and some of 
the justices thought it was but a mistake of the marches, and 
sae we couldn’t get a judgment — and your father w^as very ill 
of the gout, and I was feared to vex him, and so I was fain to 
let the process sleep, for fear they had been assoilzied. — Sae 
ye had better gang cautiously to work, St. Ronan’s, for though 
they were summoned, they were not convict.” 

“ Could you not take up the action again ? ” said Mr. Mow- 
bray. 

“Whew ! it’s been prescribed sax or seeven year syne. It 
is a great shame, St. Ronan’s, that the game-laws, whilk are 
he very best protection that is left to country gentlemen 
against the encroachment of their inferiors, rin sae short a 
course of prescription — a poacher may just jink ye back and 
forward like a flea in a blanket (wi’ pardon) — hap ye out of 
ae county and into anither at their pleasure, like pyots — 
and unless ye get your thumb-nail on them in the very nick o’ 
time, ye may dine on a dish of prescription, and sup upon an 
absolvitor.” 

“ It is a shame indeed,” said Mawbray, turning from his 
confidant and agent, and addressing himself to the company in 
general, yet not wfithout a peculiar look directed to Tyrrel. 

“What is a shame, sir? ” said Tyrrel, conceiving that the 
observation was particularly addressed to him. 

“ That w^e should have so many poachers upon our muirs, 
sir,” answered St. Ronan’s. “ I sometimes regret having coun- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


79 

tenanced the Well here, when I think how many guns it has 
brought on my property every season.” 

“ Hout fie ! hout awa, St. Ronan’s ! ” said his Man of Law ; 
“no countenance the Waal? What would the country-side 
be without it, I would be glad to ken ? It’s the greatest im- 
provement that has been made on this country since the year 
forty-five. Na, na, it’s no the Waal that’s to blame for the 
poaching and delinquencies on the game. — We maun to the 
Aultoun for the howf of that kind of cattle. Our rules at the 
Waal are clear and express against trespassers on the game.” 

“I can’t think,” said the Squire, “what made my father sell 
the property of the old change-house yonder, to the hag that 
keeps it open out of spite, I think, and to harbor poachers and 
vagabonds ! — I cannot conceive what made him do so foolish a 
thing ! ” 

“ Probably because your father wanted money, sir,” said 
Tyrrel, dryly; “and my worthy landlady, Mrs. Dods, had got 
some. — You know, I presume, sir, that I lodge there ? ” 

“ Oh, sir,” replied Mowbray, in a tone betwixt scorn and 
civility, “you cannot suppose the present company is alluded 
to ; 1 only presumed to mention as a fact, that we have been 
annoyed with unqualified people shooting on our grounds, 
without either liberty or license. — And I hope to have her sign 
taken down for it — that is all. — There was the same plague in 
my father’s days, I think, Mick ? ” 

But Mr. Meiklewham, who did not like Tyrrel’s looks so 
well as to induce him to become approver on the occasion, re- 
plied with an inarticulate grunt, addressed to the company, and 
a private admonition to his patron’s own ear, “ to let sleeping 
dogs lie.” 

“ I can scarce forbear the fellow,” said St. Ronans ; “ and 
yet I cannot well tell where my dislike to him lies — but it 
would be a d — d folly to turn out with him for nothing; and so, 
honest Mick, I will be as quiet as I can.” 

“ And that you may be so,” said Meiklewham, “ I think you 
had best take no more wine.” 

“ I think so too,” said the Squire ; “ for each glass I drink 
in his company gives me the heartburn — yet the man is not 
different from other raffs either — but there is a something 
about him intolerable to me.” 

So saying, he pushed back his chair from the table, and 
— regis ad exemplar — after the pattern of the Laird, all the 
company arose. 

Sir Bingo got up with reluctance, which he testified by two 
or three deep growls, as he followed the rest of the company 


8o 


ST, TOATAAT’S WELL. 


into the outer apartment, which served as an entrance-hall, and 
divided the dining-parlor from the tea-room, as it was called. 
Here, while the party were assuming their hats, for the purpose 
of joining the ladies’ society (which old-fashioned folk used 
only to take up for that of going into the open air), Tyrrel 
asked a smart footman, who stood near, to hand him the hat 
which lay on the table beyond. 

“ Call your own servant, sir,” answered the fellow, with the 
true insolence of a pampered menial. 

‘‘Your master,” answered Tyrrel, “ought to have taught 
you good manners, my friend, before bringing you here.” 

“ Sir Bingo Binks is my master,” said the fellow, in the 
same insolent tone as before. 

“ Now for it, Bingie,” said Mowbray, who was aware that 
the Baronet’s pot-courage had arrived at fighting-pitch. 

“ Yes ! ” said Sir Bingo aloud, and more articulately than 
usual. — “The fellow is my servant — what has anyone to say 
to it ? ” 

“ I at least have my mouth stopped,” answered Tyrrel, with 
perfect composure. “ I should have been surprised to have 
found Sir Bingo’s servant better bred than himself.” 

“ What d’ye mean by that, sir ? ” said Sir Bingo, coming up 
in an offensive attitude, for he was no mean pupil of the Fives- 
Court — “ What d’ye mean by that ? D — n you, sir ! I’ll serve 
you out before you can say dumpling.” 

“ And I, Sir Bingo, unless you presently lay aside that look 
and manner, will knock you down before you can cry help.” 

The visitor held in his hand a slip of oak, with which he 
gave a flourish, that, however slight, intimated some acquaint- 
ance with the noble art of single-stick. From this demonstra- 
tion Sir Bingo thought it prudent somewhat to recoil, though 
backed by a party of friends, who, in their zeal for his honor, 
would rather have seen his bones broken in conflict bold, than 
his honor injured by a discreditable retreat ; and Tyrrel 
seemed to have some inclination to indulge them. But, at 
the very instant when his hand was raised with a motion of 
no doubtful import, a whispering voice, close to his ear, pro- 
nounced the emphatic words — “ Are you a man ? ” 

Not the thrilling tone with which our inimitable Siddons 
used to electrify the scene, when she uttered the same whisper, 
ever had a more powerful effect upon an auditor, than had 
these unexpected sounds on him, to whom they were now 
addressed. Tyrrel forgot everything — his quarrel — the cir- 
cumstances in which he was placed — the company. The crowd 
was to him at once annihilated, and life seemed to have no 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


8l 


Other object than to follow the person who had spoken. But 
suddenly as he turned, the disappearance of the monitor was at 
least equally so, for, amid the group of commonplace counte- 
nances by which he was surrounded, there was none which 
assorted to the tone and words which possessed such a power 
over him. “ Make way,” he said to those who surrounded 
him ; and it was in the tone of one who was prepared, if neces- 
sary, to make way for himself. 

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s stepped forward. “ Come, sir,” 
said he, “ this will not do — you have come here, a stranger 
among us, to assume airs and dignities, which, by G — d 
would become a duke, or a prince ! We must know who or 
what you are, before we permit you to carry your high tone any 
further.” 

This address seemed at once to arrest Tyrrel’s anger, and his 
impatience to leave the company. He turned to Mowbray, 
collected his thoughts for an instant, and then answered him 
thus: — “ Mr. Mowbray, I seek no quarrel with any one here, — 
with you, in particular, I am most unwilling to have any dis- 
agreement. I came here by invitation, not certainly expecting 
much pleasure, but, at the same time, supposing myself secure 
from incivility. In the last point I find myself mistaken, and 
therefore wish the company good-night. I must also make my 
adieu to the ladies.” So saying, he walked several steps, yet, 
as it seemed, rather irresolutely, toward the door of the card- 
room — and then, to the increased surprise of the company, 
stopped suddenly, and muttering something about the “ unfit- 
ness of the time,” turned on his heel, and bowing haughtily, as 
there was way made for him, walked in the opposite direction 
toward the door which led to the outer hall. 

“ D — n me. Sir Bingo, will you let him off? ” said Mowbray, 
who seemed to delight in pushing his friend into new scrapes — 
“ To him, man — to him — he shows the white feather.” 

Sir Bingo, thus encouraged, planted himself with a look of 
defiance exactly between Tyrrel and the door ; upon which the 
retreating guest, bestowing on him most emphatically the 
epithet Foo4 seized him by the collar, and flung him out of his 
way with some violence. 

“ I am to be found at the Old Town of St. Ronan’s by 
whomsoever has any concern with me.” — Without waiting the 
issue of this aggression further than to utter these words, Tyrrel 
left the hotel. He stopped in the courtyard, however, with the 
air of one uncertain whither he intended to go, and who was 
desirous to ask some question, which seemed to die upon his 
tongue. At length his eye fell upon a groom, who stood not 


82 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


far from the door of the inn, holding in his hand a hanasome 
pony, with a side-saddle. 

“ Whose,” said Tyrrel, but the rest of the question he 

seemed unable to utter. 

The man, however, replied, as if he had heard the whole 
interrogation. — “Miss Mowbray’s, sir, of St. Ronan’s — she 
leaves directly — and so I am walking the j)ony — a clever thing, 
sir, for a lady.” 

“ She returns to Shaws Castle by the Buck-stane road } ” 

“ I suppose so, sir,” said the groom. “ It is the Highest, and 
Miss Clara cares little for rough roads. Zounds ! she can spank 
it over wet and dry.” 

Tyrrel turned away from the man, and hastily left the hotel 
— not, however, by the road which led to the Aultoun, but by 
a footpath among the natural copsewood, which, following the 
course of the brook, intersected the usual horse-road to Shaws 
Castle, the seat of Mr. Mowbray, at a romantic spot called the 
Buck-stane. 

In a small peninsula, formed by a winding of the brook, was 
situated, on a rising hillock, a large rough-hewn pillar of stone, 
said by tradition to commemorate the fall of a stag of unusual 
speed, size, and strength, whose flight, after having lasted 
through a whole summer’s day, had there terminated in death, 
to the honor and glory of some ancient Baron of St. Ronan’s, 
and of his stanch hounds. During the periodical cuttings of 
the copse, which the necessities of the family of St. Ronan’s 
brought round more frequently than Ponty would have recom- 
mended, some oaks had been spared in the neighborhood of 
this massive obelisk, old enough perhaps to have heard the 
whoop and halloo which followed the fall of the stag, and to 
have witnessed the raising of the rude monument, by which 
that great event was commemorated. These trees, with their 
broad spreading boughs, made a twilight even of noon-day, 
and now, that the sun was approaching its setting point, their 
shade already anticipated night. This was especially the case 
where three or four of them stretched their arms over a deep 
gully, through which winded the horse-path to Shaws Castle, 
at a point about a pistol-shot distant from the Buck-stane. 
As the principal access to Mr. Mowbray’s mansion was by a 
carriage-way which passed in a different direction, the piesent 
path was left almost in a state of nature, full of large stones, 
and broken by gullies, delightful from the varied character of 
its banks, to the picturesque traveler, and most inconvenient, 
nay, dangerous, to him who had a stumbling horse. 

The footpath to the Buck-stane, which here joined the bridle- 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


83 

road, had been constructed at the expense of a subscription, 
under the direction of Mr. Winterblossom, who had taste 
enough to see the beaudes of this secluded spot, which was 
exactly such as in earlier times might have harbored the 
ambush of some marauding chief. This recollection had not 
escaped Tyrrel, to whom the whole scenery was familiar, who 
now hastened to the spot, as one which pecuftarly suited his 
present purpose. He sat down by one of the larger projecting 
trees, and, screened by its enormous branches from observation, 
was enabled to watch the road from the Hotel for a great part 
of its extent, while he was himself invisible to any who might 
travel upon it. 

Meanwhile his sudden departure excited a considerable 
sensation among the party whom he had just left, and who 
were induced to form conclusions not very favorable to his 
character. Sir Bingo, in particular, blustered loudly and more 
loudly, in proportion to the increasing distance betwixt himself 
and his antagonist, declaring his resolution to be revenged on 
the scoundrel for his insolence — to drive him from the neigh- 
borhood, — and I know not what other menaces of formidable 
import. The devil, in the old stories of diablerie^ was always 
sure to start up at the elbow of any one who nursed diabolical 
purposes, and only wanted a little backing from the foul fiend 
to carry his imagination into action. The noble Captain 
MacTurk had so far this property of his infernal majesty, that 
the least hint of an approaching quarrel drew him always to 
the vicinity of the party concerned. He was now at Sir Bingo’s 
side, and was taking his own view of the matter, in his charac- 
ter of peace-maker. 

“ By Cot ! and it’s very exceedingly true, my good friend, Sir 
Binco — and as you say, it concerns your honor, and the honor 
of the place, and credit and character of the whole company, by 
Cot ! that this matter be properly looked after ; for, as I think, 
he laid hands on your body, my excellent goot friend.” 

“Hands, Captain MacTurk!” exclaimed Sir Bingo in some 
confusion; “no, blast him — not so bad as that neither — if he 

had, I should have handed him over the window — but by , 

the fellow had the impudence to offer to collar me — I had just 
stepped back to square at him, when, curse me, the blackguard 
ran away.” 

“ Right, vara right. Sir Bingo,” said the Man of Law, “ a 
vara perfect blackguard, a poaching sorning sort of fallow, that 
I will have scoured out of the country before he be three days 
aulder. Fash you your beard nae further about the matter, 
Sir Bingo.” 


84 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


“ By Cot ! but I can tell you, Mr. Meiklewham,” said the 
Man of Peace, with great solemnity of visage, “that you are 
scalding your lips in other folk’s kale, and that it is necessary 
for the credit, and honor, and respect of this company, at the 
Well of St. Ronan’s, that Sir Binco goes by more competent 
advice than yours upon the present occasion, Mr. Meiklewham : 
for though your counsel may do very well in a small-debt court, 
here, do you see, Mr. Meiklewham, is a question of honor, 
which is not a thing in your line, as I take it.” 

“No, before George! is it not,” answered Meiklewham; 
“ e’en take it all to yoursell. Captain, and meikle ye are likely to 
make on’t.” 

“ Then,” said the Captain, “ Sir Binco, I will beg the favor 
of your company to the smoking room, where w^e may have a 
cigar and a glass of gin-twist ; and we will consider how the 
honor of the company must be supported and upholden upon 
the present conjuncture.” 

The Baronet complied with this invitation, as much, perhaps, 
in consequence of the medium through which the Captain in- 
tended to convey his warlike counsels, as for the pleasure with 
which he anticipated the result of these counsels themselves. He 
followed the military step of his leader, whose stride was more 
stiff, and his form more perpendicular, when exalted by the 
consciousness of an approaching quarrel, to the smoking room, 
where, sighing as he lighted his cigar. Sir Bingo prepared to 
listen to the words of wisdom and valor as they should flow in 
mingled stream from the lips of Captain MacTurk. 

Meanwhile the rest of the company joined the ladies. 
“ Here has been Clara, ” said the Lady Penelope to Mr. Mow- 
bray ; “ here has been Miss Mowbray among ur, like the ray of 
a sun which does but dazzle and die.” 

“Ah, poor Clara,” said Mowbray ; “ I thought I saw her thread 
her way through the crowd a little while since, but I was not 
sure.” 

“ Well,” said Lady Penelope, “ she has asked us all up to 
Shaws Castle on Thursday, to a dejeuner a la fourchette — I trust 
you confirm your sister’s invitation, Mr. Mowbray ? ” 

“ Certainly, Lady Penelope,” replied Mowbray ; “and I am 
truly glad Clara has had the grace to think of it — How we shall 
acquit ourselves is a different question, for neither she nor I are 
much accustomed to play host or hostess.” 

“ Oh ! it will be delightful, I am sure,” said Lady Penelope ; 
“ Clara has a grace in a everything she does ; and you, Mr. 
Mowbray, can be a perfectly well-bred gentleman — when you 
please.” 


ST. jRONAN'S WELL. 


85 

“ That qualification is severe — Well — good manners be my 
speed — I will certainly please to do my best, when I see your 
ladyship at Shaws Castle, which has received no company this 
many a day. — Clara and I have lived a wild life of it, each in 
their own way.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Mowbra}'-,” said Lady Binks, “if I might pre- 
sunie to speak — I think you do suffer your sister to ride about 
too much without an attendant. I know Miss Mowbray rides as 
woman never rode before, but still an accident may happen.” 

“An accident ?” replied Mowbra}^ — “ Ah, lady Binks ! acci- 
dents happen as frequently when ladies have attendants as when 
they are without them.” 

Lady Binks, who, in her maiden state, had cantered a good 
deal about these woods under Sir Bingo's escort, colored, looked 
spiteful, and was silent. 

“Besides,” said John Mowbra}^, more lightly, “where is the 
risk, after all ? There are no wolves in our woods to eat up 
our pretty Red-Riding-Hoods ; and no lions either — except 
those of Lady Penelope’s train.” 

“ Who draw the car of Cybele,” said Mr. Chatterly. 

Lady Penelope luckily did not understand the allusion, which 
was indeed better intended than imagined. 

“ Apropos ! ” she said ; “ what have you done with the great 
lion of the day ? I see Mr. Tyrrel nowhere — Is he finishing an 
additional bottle with Sir Bingo .?” 

“Mr. Tyrrel, madam,” said Mowbray, “ has acted succes- 
sively the lion rampant and the lion passant ; he has been quar- 
relsome, and he has run aw^a}’ — fled from the ire of your doughty 
knight. Lady Binks.” 

“ I am sure I hope not,” said Lady Binks ; “ my Chevalier’s 
unsuccessful campaigns have been unable to overcome his taste 
for quarrels — a victory w'ould make a fighting man of him for 
life.” 

“ That inconvenience might bring its own consolations,” 
said Winterblossom apart to Mowbray ; “ quarrelers do not 
usually live long.” 

“No, no,” replied Mowbray, “the lady’s despair, which 
broke out just now, even in her own despite, is quite natural 
• — absolutely legitimate. Sir Bingo will give her no chance that 
way.” 

Mowbray then made his bow to Lady Penelope, and in 
answer to her request that he would join the ball or the card 
table, observed, that he had no time to lose ; that the heads of 
the old domestics at Shaws Castle would be by this time abso- 
lutely turned, by the apprehensions of what Thursday was to 


86 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


bring forth ; and that as Clara would certainly give no direc- 
tions for the proper arrangements, it was necessary that he 
should take that trouble himself. 

“ If you ride smartly,” said Lady Penelope, “ you may save 
even a temporary alarm, by overtaking Clara, dear creature, 
ere she gets home — She sometimes suffers her pony to go at 
will along the lane, as slow as Betty Foy’s.” 

“ Ah, but then,” said little Miss Digges, “ Miss Mowbray 
sometimes gallops as if the lark was a snail to her pony — and 
it quite frights one to see her.” 

'Fhe Doctor touched Mrs. Blower, who had approached so as 
to be on the verge of the genteel circle, though she did not 
venture within it, — They exchanged sagacious looks, and a most 
pitiful shake of the head. Mowbray’s eye happened at that 
moment to glance on them ; and doubtless, notwithstanding 
their hasting to compose their countenances to a different 
expression, he comprehended what was passing through their 
minds ; and perhaps it awoke a corresponding note in his own. 
He took his hat, and with a cast of thought upon his counte- 
nance which it seldom wore, left the apartment. A moment 
afterward his horse’s feet were heard spurning the pavement, 
as he started off at a sharp pace. 

“ There is something singular about these Mowbrays to- 
night,” said Lady Penelope. — “ Clara, poor dear angel, is 
always particular ; but I should have thought Mowbray had 
too much worldly wisdom to be fanciful. — What are you 
consulting vour souvefii?- for with such attention, mv dear Ladv 
Binks.?” 

“Only for the age of the moon,” said her ladyship, putting 
the little tortoise-shell bound calendar into her reticule ; and 
having done so, she proceeded to assist Lady Penelope in the 
arrangements for the evening. 


CHAPTER NINTH. 

THE MEETING. 

We meet as shadows in the land of dreams. 

Which speak not but in signs. 

Anonymous. 

Behind one of the old oaks which we have described in the 
preceding chapter, shrouding himself from observation like a 
hunter watching for his game, or an Indian for his enemy, but 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


87 

with different, very different purpose, Tyrrel lay on his breast 
near the Buck-stane, his eye on the horse-road which winded 
down the valley, and his ear alertly awake to every sound which 
mingled with the passing breeze, or with the ripple of the 
brook. 

“ To have met her in yonder congregated assembly of brutes 
and fools ” — such was a part of his internal reflections, — “ had 
been little less than an act of madness — madness almost equal 
in its degree to that cowardice which has hitherto prevented 
my approaching her, when our eventful meeting might have 
taken place unobserved. — But now — now — my resolution is as 
fixed as the place is itself fav’^orable. I will not wait till some 
chance again shall throw us together, with a hundred malignant 
eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to account 
for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible 
to suppress. — Hark — Hark ! — I hear the tread of a horse. — 
No — it was the changeful sound of the water rushing over the 
pebbles. Surely she cannot have taken the other road to Shaws 
Castle ! — No — the sounds become distinct — her figure is visible 
on the path, coming swiftly forward. — Have I the courage to 
show myself ? — I have — the hour is come, and what must be 
shall be.” 

Yet this resolution w^as scarcely formed ere it began to 
fluctuate, when he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying 
it into execution. To show himself at a distance, might give 
the lady an opportunity of turning back and avoiding the in- 
terview which he had determined upon — to hide himself till 
the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should pass his 
lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider — 
and while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some 
chance of his missing the opportunity of presenting himself to 
Miss Mowbray at all. Pie was himself sensible of this, formed 
a hasty and desperate resolution not to suffer the present mo- 
ment to escape, and, just as the ascent induced the pony to 
slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the defile, about 
six yards distant from the young lady. 

She pulled up the reins, and stopped as if arrested by a 
thunderbolt. — “ Clara ! ” — “ Tyrrel ! ” These were the only 
words w^hich were exchanged betw'een them, until Tyrrel, mov- 
ing his feet as slowly as if they had been of lead, began grad- 
ually to diminish the distance which lay betwixt them. It was 
then that, observing his closer approach. Miss Mowbray called 
out with great eagerness, — “ No nearer — no nearer ! — So long 
have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more 
closely, I shall be mad indeed I ” 


88 


ST. ROMANES WELL, 


“ What do you fear ? ” said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice — : 
“ What can you fear ? ” and he continued to draw nearer, until 
they were within a pace of each other, 

Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle, clasped her hands 
together, and held them up toward Heaven, muttering, in a 
voice scarcely audible, “ Great God ! — if this apparition be 
formed by my heated fancy, let it pass away ; if it be real, 
enable me to bear its presence ! — Tell me, I conjure you, are 
you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but one of 
those wandering visions that have crossed my path and glared 
on me, but without daring to abide my steadfast glance ? ” 

“ I am Francis Tyrrel,” answered he, “ in blood and body, 
as much as she to whom I speak is Clara Mowbray.” 

“ Then God have mercy on us both ! ” said Clara, in a tone 
of deep feeling. 

“ Amen ! ” said Tyrrel. — “ But what avails this excess of 
agitation ? — You saw me but now. Miss Mowbray — your voice 
still rings in my ears — You saw me but now — you spoke to me 
— and that when I v. as among strangers — Why not preserve 
your composure when we are where no human eye can see — no 
human ear can hear 'i ” 

“ Is it so ? ” said Clara ; “ and was it indeed yourself whom 
I saw even now ? — I thought so, and something I said at the 
time — but my brain has been but ill settled since we last met — 
But I am well now — quite well — I have invited all the people 
yonder to come to Shaws Castle — my brother desired me to do 
it — I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tyrrel there 
— though 1 think there is some old grudge between my brother 
and you.” 

“ Alas ! Clara, you mistake. Your brother I have scarcely 
seen,” replied Tyrrel, much distressed, and apparently uncer- 
tain in w'hat tone to address her, which might soothe, and not 
irritate her mental malady, of which he could now entertain no 
doubt. 

“ True — true,” she said, after a moment’s reflection, “ my 
brother was then at college. It was my father, my poor father, 
whom you had some quarrel with. — But you wall come to 
Shawls Castle on Thursday at tw'o o’clock ? — John will be glad 
to see you — he can be kind when he pleases — and then w^e will 
talk of old times — I must get on to have things ready — Good 
evening.” 

She would have passed him, but he took gently hold of the 
rein of her bridle. — “ I will walk with you, Clara,” he said ; 
“ the road is rough and dangerous — you ought not to ride fast. 


ST. RONAN*S WELL. 89 

— I will walk along with you, and we will talk of former times 
now, more conveniently than in company.” 

“ True — true — very true, Mr. Tyrrel — it shall be as you 
say. My brother obliges me sometimes to go into company at 
that hateful place down yonder ; and I do so because he likes 
it, and because the folks let me have my own way, and come 
and go as I list. Do you know, Tyrrel, that very often when I 
am there, and John has his eye on me, I can carry it on as gayly 
as if you and I had never met ? ” 

“ I would to God we never had,” said Tyrrel, in atrembling 
voice, “ since this is to be the end of all ! ” 

“ And wherefore should not sorrow be the end of sin and 
of folly ? And when did happiness come of disobedience i* — 
And when did sound sleep visit a bloody pillow 1 That is what 
I say to myself, Tyrrel, and that is what you must learn to say 
too, and then you will bear your burden as cheerfully as I 
endure mine. If we have no more than our deserts, why should 
we complain ? — You are shedding tears, I think — Is not that 
childish 1 — They say it is a relief — if so, weep on, and I will 
look another way.” 

Tyrrel walked on by the pony’s side, jn vain endeavoring to 
compose himself so as to reply. 

“ Poor Tyrrel,” said Clara, after she had remained silent 
for some time — “Poor Frank Tyrrel ! — Perhaps you will say in 
your turn, poor Clara — but I am not so poor in spirit as you — 
the blast may bend, but it shall never break me.” 

There was another long pause ; for Tyrrel was unable to 
determine with himself in what strain he could address the un- 
fortunate young lady, without awakening recollections equally 
painful to her feelings, and dangerous, when her precarious 
state of health was considered. At length she herself pro- 
ceeded : — 

“ What needs all this, Tyrrel — and indeed, why came you 
here — Why did I find you but now brawling and quarreling 
among the loudest of the brawlers and quarrelers of yonder 
idle and dissipated debauchees ? — You were used to have more 
temper — more sense. Another person — ay, another that you 
and I once knew — he might have committed such a folly, and 
he would have acted perhaps in character — But you, who pre- 
tend to wisdom — for shame, for shame ! — And indeed, when we 
talk of that, what wisdom was there in coming hither at all ? — • 
or what good purpose can your remaining here serve i* — Surely 
you need not come, either to renew your own unhappiness or 
to augment mine ” 

“ To augment yours — God forbid ! ” answered Tyrrel. 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


90 

“ No— I came hither only because, after so many years of 
wandering, I longed to visit the spot where all my hopes lay 
buried.” 

“ Ay — buried is the word,” she replied, “ crushed down and 
buried when they budded fairest. 1 often think of it, Tyrrel ; 
and there are times when. Heaven help me ! I can think of 
little else. — Look at me---you remember what I was — see what 
grief and solitude have made me.” 

She flung back the veil which ‘surrounded her riding-hat, 
and which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same coun- 
tenance which he had formerly known in all the bloom of early 
beauty; but though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled 
for ever. Not the agitation of exercise — not that which arose 
from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview, had 
called to poor Clara’s cheek even the momentary semblance of 
color. Her complexion was marble-white, like that of the finest 
piece of statuar}'. 

“ Is it possible ? ” said Tyrrel ; “ can grief have made such 
ravages .? ” 

“ Grief,” replied Clara, “ is the sickness of the mind, and its 
sister is the sickness of the body — they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, 
and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease 
comes first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands, before 
the fire of our mind and of our intellect is quenched. But 
mark me — soon after comes her cruel sister with her urn, and 
sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and on our loves, our memory, 
our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they can- 
not survive the decay of our bodily powers.” 

“Alas ! ” said Tyrrel, “ is it come to this ? ” 

“ To this,” she replied, speaking from the rapid and irre- 
gular train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending the 
purport of his sorrowful exclamation, — “ to this it must ever 
come, while immortal souls are wedded to the perishable sub- 
stance of which our bodies are composed. There is another 
state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise — God grant our time 
of enjoying it were come ! ” 

She fell into a melancholy pause, which Tyrrel was afraid 
to disturb. The quickness with which she spoke marked but 
too plainly the irregular succession of thought, and he was 
obliged to restrain the agony of his own feelings, rendered 
more acute by a thousand painful recollections, lest by giving 
way to his expressions of grief, he should throw her into a still 
more disturbed state of mind. 

“ I did not think,” she proceeded, “ that after so horrible a 
separation, and so many years, I could have met you thus 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


91 

calmly and reasonably. But although what we were formerly 
to each other can never be forgotten, it is now all over, and we 
are only friends — Is it not so ? ” 

Tyrrel was unable to repl3^ 

“ But I must not remain here,” she said, “till the evening 
grows darker on me. — We shall meet again, Tyrrel — meet as 
friends — nothing more — You will come up to Shaws Castle and 
see me ? — no need of secrecy now — my poor father is in his 
grave, and his prejudices sleep with him — -my brother John is 
kind though he is stern and severe sometimes — Indeed, Tyrrel, 
I believe he loves me, though he has taught m.e to tremble at 
his frown when I am in spirits and talk too much — But he 
loves me, at least I think so, for I am sure I love him ; and I 
try to go down amongst them yonder, and to endure their folly, 
and, all things considered, I do carry on the farce of life won- 
derfully well — We are but actors, you know, and the world but 
a stage.” 

“And ours has been a sad and tragic scene,” said Tyrrel, in 
the bitterness of his heart, unable any longer to refrain from 
speech. 

“ It has indeed — but, Tyrrel, when was it otherwise with 
engagements formed in youth and in folly ? You and I would, 
you know, become men and women while we were yet scarcely 
more than children — We have run, while yet in our nonage, 
through the passions and adventures of youth, and therefore 
we are now old before our day, and the winter of our life has 
come on ere its summer was well begun. — O Tyrrel ! often and 
often have I thought of this ! — Thought of it often Alas ! 
when will the time come that I shall be able to think of any- 
thing else ! ” 

The poor young woman sobbed bitterly, and her tears 
began to flow with a freedom which they had not probably en- 
joyed for a length of time. Tyrrel walked on by the side of 
her horse, which now prosecuted its road homeward, unable 
to devise a proper mode of addressing the unfortunate young 
lady, and fearing alike to awaken her passions and his own. 
Whatever he might have proposed to say was disconcerted by 
the plain indications that her mind was clouded, more or less 
slightly, with a shade of insanity, which deranged, though it 
had not destroyed, her powers of judgment. 

At length he asked her, with as much calmness as he could 
assume — if she was contented — if aught could be done to ren- 
der her situation more easy — if there was aught of which she 
could complain which he might be able to remedy She an- 
swered gently, that she was calm and resigned, when her 


92 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


brother would permit her to stay at home ; but that, when she 
was brought into society, she experienced such a change as 
that which the water of the brook that slumbers in a crystal- 
line pool of the rock may be supposed to feel, when, gliding 
from its quiet bed, it becomes involved in the hurry of the 
cataract. 

“But my brother Mowbray,” she said, “thinks he is right, 
— and perhaps he is so. There are things on which we may 
ponder too long; — and were he mistaken, why should I not 
constrain myself in order to please him ? — there are so few left 
to whom I can now give either pleasure or pain. — 1 am a gay 
girl, too, in conversation, Tyrrel — still as gay for a moment, as 
when you used to chide me for my folly. So, now I have told 
you all, — I have one question to ask on my part — one question 
— if I had but breath to ask it — is he still alive ? ” 

“ He lives,” answered Tyrrel, but in a tone so low, that 
nought but the eager attention which Miss Mowbray paid 
could possibly have caught such feeble sounds. 

“ Lives ! ” she exclaimed, — “ lives ! — he lives, and the blood 
on your hand is not then indelibly imprinted — O Tyrrel, did 
you but know the joy which this assurance gives to me !” 

“ Joy ! ” replied Tyrrel — “joy, that the wretch lives who has 
poisoned our happiness forever ! — lives, perhaps, to claim you 
for his own .? ” 

“ Never, never, shall he — dare he do so,” replied Clara, 
wildly, “ while water can drown, while cords can strangle, steel 
pierce — while there is a precipice on the hill, a pool in the 
river — never — never ! ” 

“ Be not thus agitated, my dearest Clara,” said Tyrrel ; “ I 
spoke I know not what — -he lives indeed — but far distant, and, 
I trust, never again to revisit Scotland.” 

He would have said more, but that, agitated with fear or 
passion, she struck her horse impatiently with her riding whip. 
The spirited animal, thus stimulated and at the same time re- 
strained, became intractable, and reared so much, that Tyrrel, 
fearful of the consequences, and trusting to Clara’s skill as a 
horsewoman, thought he best consulted her safety in letting go 
the rein. The animal instantly sprung forward on a broken 
and hilly path at a very rapid pace, and was soon lost to 
Tyrrel’s anxious eyes. 

As he stood pondering whether he ought not to follow Miss 
Mowbray toward Shaws Castle, in order to be satisfied that no 
accident had befallen her on the road, he heard the tread of a 
horse’s feet advancing hastily in the same direction, leading 
from the Hotel. Unwilling to be observed at this moment, he 


ST. TONAN^S WELL, 


93 

stepped aside under the shelter of the underwood, and presently 
afterward saw Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, followed by a 
groom, ride hastily past his lurking-place, and pursue the 
same road which had been just taken by his sister. The pres- 
ence of her brother seemed to assure Miss Mowbray’s safety, 
and so removed Tyrrel’s chief reason for following her. In- 
volved in deep and melancholy reflection upon what had passed, 
nearly satisfied that his longer residence in Clara’s vicinity 
could only add to her unhappiness and his own, yet unable to 
tear himself from that neighborhood, or to relinquish feelings 
which had become entwined with his heart strings, he returned 
to his lodgings in the Aultoun in a state of mind very little to be 
envied. 

Tyrrel, on entering his apartment, found that it was not 
lighted, nor were the abigails of Mr. Dods quite so alert as a 
waiter at Long’s miglit have been to supply him with candles. 
Inapt at any time to exact much personal attendance, and de- 
sirous to shun at that moment the necessity of speaking to any 
person whatever, even on the most trifling subject, he walked 
down into the kitchen to supply himself with what he wanted. 
He did not at first observe that Mrs. Dods herself was present 
in this the very centre of her empire, far less that a lofty air of 
indignation was seated on the worthy matron’s brow. At first 
it only vented itself in broken soliloquy and interjections; as, 
for example, “ Vera bonny wark this ! — vera creditable wark, in- 
deed ! — a decent house to be disturbed at these hours — Keep a 
public — as weel keep a bedlam ! ” 

Finding these murmurs attracted no attention, the dame 
placed herself betwixt her guest and the door, to which he was 
now retiring with his lighted candle, and demanded of him 
what was the meaning of such behavior. 

“ Of what behavior, madam ? ” said her guest, repeating 
her question in a tone of sternness and impatience so unusual 
with him, that perhaps she was sorry at the moment that she 
had provoked him out of his usual patient indifference ; nay, she 
might even feel intimidated at the altercation she had provoked, 
for the resentment of a quiet and patient person has always in 
it something formidable to the professed and habitual grumbler. 
But her pride was too great to think of a retreat, after having 
sounded the signal for contest, and so she continued, though in 
a tone somewhat lowered. 

“ Maister Tirl, I wad but just ask you, that are a man of 
sense, whether I hae ony right to take your behavior weel? 
Here have you been these ten days and mair, eating the best, 
and drinking the best, and taking up the best room in my 


94 


ST. RONAN-^S fVELL. 


house ; and now to think of yourgaun down and taking up with 
yon idle hare-brained cattle at the Waal — I maun e’en be plain 
wi’ ye — I like nane of the fair-fashioned folk that can say My 
Jo, and think it no; and therefore ” 

“ Mrs. Dods,” said Tyrrel, interrupting her, “ I have no 
time at present for trifles. I am obliged to you for your atten- 
tion while I have been in your house ; but the disposal of my 
time, here or elsewhere, must be aocording to my own ideas of 
pleasure or business — if you are tired of me as a guest, send in 
your bill to-morrow.” 

“ My bill ! said Mrs. Dods ; “ my bill to-morrow ! And 
what for no wait till Saturday, when it may be cleared atween 
us, plack and bawbee, as it was on Saturday last ? ” 

“ Well — we will talk of it to-morrow, Mrs. Dods — Good- 
night.” And he withdrew accordingly. 

Luckie Dods stood ruminating for a moment. “ The deil’s 
in him,” she said, “for he winna bide being thrawn. And I 
think the deil’s in me too for thrawing him, sic a canny lad, and 
sae gude a customer ; — and I am judging he has something on 
his mind — want of siller it canna be — I am sure, if I thought 
that, I wadna care about my small thing. — But want o’ siller it 
canna be — he pays ower the shillings as if they were sclate 
stanes, and that’s no the way that folks part with their siller 
when there’s but little on’t — I ken weel eneugh how a customer 
looks that’s near the grund of the purse. — Weel ! I hope he 
winna mind onything of this nonsense the morn, and I’ll try to 
guide my tongue something better. — Hegh, sirs ! but, as the 
ministers says, it’s an unruly member— troth, I am whiles 
ashamed o’t mysell.” 


CHAPTER TENTH. 

RESOURCES. 

Come, come, let me have thy counsel, for I need it; 

Thou art of thbse, who better help their friends 
With sage advice, than usurers with gold. 

Or brawlers with their swords — I’ll trust to thee. 

For I ask only from thee words, not deeds. 

The Devil hath met his Match. 

The day of which we last gave the events chanced to be 
Monday, and two days therefore intervened betwixt it and that 
for which the entertainment was fixed, that was to assemble in 


. 97 : RONAN^S WELL. 


95 

the halls of the Lord of the Manor the flower of the company 
now at St. Ronan’s Well. The interval was but brief for the 
preparations necessary on an occasion so unusual ; since the 
house, though delightfully situated, was in- very indifferent 
repair, and for years had never received any visitors, except 
when some blithe bachelor or fox-hunter shared the hospitality 
of Mr. Mowbray ; an event which became daily more and more 
uncommon ; for, as he himself almost lived at the Well, he 
generally contrived to receive his companions where it could be 
done without expense to himself. Besides, the health of his 
sister afforded an irresistible apology to any of those old- 
fashioned Scottish gentlemen, who might be too apt (in the 
rudeness of more primitive days) to consider a friend’s house 
as their own. Mr. Mowbray was now, however, to the great 
delight of all his companions, nailed down, by invitation given 
and accepted, and they looked forward to the accomplishment 
of his promise, with the eagerness which the prospect of some 
entertaining novelty never fails to produce among idlers. 

A good deal of trouble devolved on Mr. Mowbray, and his 
trusty agent, Mr. Meiklewham, before anything like decent 
preparation could be made for the ensuing entertainment ; and 
they were left to their unassisted endeavors by Clara, who, 
during both the Tuesday and Wednesday, obstinately kept 
herself secluded ; nor could her brother, either by threats or 
flattery, extort from her any light concerning her purpose on 
the approaching and important Thursday. To do John Mow- 
bray justice, he loved his sister as much as he was capable of 
loving anything but himself; and when, in several arguments, 
he had the mortification to find that she was not to be prevailed 
on to afford her assistance, he, without complaint, quietly set 
himself to do the best he could by his own unassisted judgment 
or opinion with regard to the necessary preparations. 

This was not, at present, so easy a task as might be sui> 
posed ; for Mowbrav was ambitious of that character of to7i and 
elegance, which masculine faculties alone are seldom capable 
of attaining on such momentous occasions. The more solid 
materials of a collation were indeed to be obtained for money 
from the next market town, and were purchased accordingly ; 
but he felt it was likely to present the vulgar plenty of a farm- 
er’s feast, instead of tne elegant entertainment, which might be 
announced in a corner of the country paper, as given by John 
Mowbray, Esq. of St. Ronan’s, to the gay and fashionable com- 
pany assembled at that celebrated spring. There was likely 
to be all sorts of error and irregularity in dishing, and in send- 
ing up ; for Shaws Castle boasted neither an accomplished 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


96 

housekeeper, nor a kitchenmaid with a hundred pair of hands 
to execute her mandates. All the domestic arrangements were 
on the minutest system of economy consistent with ordinary 
decency, except in the stables, which were excellent and well 
kept. But can a groom of the stables perform the labors of a 
groom of the chambers? or can the gamekeeper ar’-ange in 
tempting order the carcasses of the birds he has shot, strew 
them with flowers, and garnish them with piquant sauces ? It 
would be as reasonable to expect a gallant soldier to act as 
undertaker, -and conduct the funeral of the enemy he has slain. 

In a word, Mowbray talked, and consulted, and advised, and 
squabbled, with the deaf cook, and a little old man, whom he 
called the butler, until he at length perceived so little chance 
of bringing order out of confusion, or making the least advan- 
tageous impression on such obdurate understandings as he had 
to deal with, that he fairly committed the whole matter of the 
collation, with two or three hearty curses, to the charge of the 
officials principally concerned, and proceeded to take the state 
of the furniture and apartments under his consideration. 

Here he found himself almost equally helpless ; for what 
male wit is adequate to the thousand little coquetries practiced 
in such arrangements ? how can masculine eyes judge of the 
degree of demi-jour which is to be admitted into a decorated 
apartment, or discriminate where the broad light should be 
suffered to fall on a tolerable picture, where it should be 
excluded, lest the stiff daub of a periwigged grandsire should 
become too rigidly prominent ? And if men are unfit for 
weaving such a fairy web of light and darkness as may best 
suit furniture, ornaments, and complexions, how shall they be 
adequate to the yet more mysterious office of arranging, while 
they disarrange, the various movables in the apartment? so 
that while all has the air of negligence and chance, the seats 
are placed as if they had been transported by a wish to the 
spot most suitable for accommodation ; stiffness and confusion 
are at once avoided, the company are neither limited to a 
formal circle of chairs, nor exposed to break their noses over 
wandering stools ; but the arrangements seem to correspond to 
what ought to be the tone of the conversation, easy, without 
being confused, and regulated, without being constrained or 
stiffened. 

Then how can a clumsy male wit attempt the arrangement of 
all the chiffionerie, by which old snuff-boxes, heads of canes, 
pomander-boxes, lamer beads, and the trash usually found in 
the pigeon-holes of the bureaus of old-fashioned ladies, may be 
now brought into play, by throwing them, carelessly grouped 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


97 

with other unconsidered trifles, such as are to be seen in the 
windows of a pawnbroker’s shop, upon a marble encogfiiire., or 
a mosaic work-table, thereby turning to advantage the trash 
and trinketry, which all old maids or magpies, who have in- 
habited the mansion for a century, have contrived to accumu- 
late. With what admiration of the ingenuity of the fair artist 
have I sometimes pried into these miscellaneous groups of 
pseudo-bijouterie., and seen the great grandsire’s thumb-ring 
couchant with the coral and bells of the firstborn — and the boat- 
swain’s whistle of some old naval uncle, or his silver tocacco- 
box, redolent of Oroonoko, happily grouped with the mother’s 
ivory camb-case, still odorous of musk, and with some virgin 
aunt’s tortoise-shell spectacle-case, and the eagle’s talon of 
ebony, with which, in the days of long and stiff stays, our 
grandmothers were wont to alleviate any little irritation in 
their back or shoulders ! Then there was the silver strainer, 
on which, in more economical times than ours, the lady of the 
house placed the tea-leaves, after the very last drop had been 
exhausted, that they might afterward be hospitably divided 
among the company, to be eaten with sugar, and with bread 
and butter. Blessings upon a fashion which has rescued from 
the claws of abigails, and the melting-pot of the silversmith, 
those neglected eime/ia, for the benefit of antiquaries and the 
decoration of side-tables ! But who shall presume to place them 
there, unless under the direction of female taste and of that 
Mr. Mowbray, though possessed of a large stock of such 
treasures, was for the present entirely deprived. 

This digression upon his difficulties is already too long, or I 
might mention the Laird’s inexperience in the art of making 
the worse appear the better garnishment, of hiding a darned 
carpet with a new floor-cloth, and flinging an Indian shawl 
over a faded and threadbare sofa. But I have said enough, 
and more than enough, to explain his dilemma to any unas- 
sisted bachelor, v/ho, v\ithout mother, sister, or cousin, without 
skilful housekeeper, or experienced clerk of the kitchen, or 
valet of parts and figure, adventures to give an entertainment, 
and aspires to make it elegant and C07nme il font. 

The sense of his insufficiency was the more vexatious to 
Mowbray, as he was aware he would fine sharp critics in the 
ladies, and particularly in his constant rival. Lady Penelope 
Penfeather. He was, • therefore, incessant in his exertions; 
and for two whole days, ordered and disordered, demanded, 
commanded, countermanded, and reprimanded, without pause 
or cessation. The companion, for he could not be termed an 
assistant of his labors, was his trusty agent, who trotted from 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


98 

room to room after him, affording him exactly the same degree 
of sympathy which a dog doth to his master when distressed in 
mind, by looking in his face from time to time with a piteous 
gaze, as if to assure him that he partakes of his trouble, though 
he neither comprehends the cause or the extent of it, nor has 
in the slightest-degrec the power to remove it. 

At length, when Mowbray had got some matters arranged 
to his mind, and abandoned a great many, which he would 
willingly have put in better order, he sat down to dinner upon 
the Wednesday preceding the appointed day, with his worthy 
aid-de-camp, Mr. Meiklewham ; and, after bestowing a few 
muttered curses upon the whole concern, and the fantastic old 
maid who had brought them into the scrape, by begging an 
invitation, declared that all things might now go to the devil 
their own way, for, so sure as his name was John Mowbray, he 
would trouble himself no more about them. 

Keeping this doughty resolution, he sat down to dinnerwdth 
his counsel learned in the law ; and speedily they despatched 
the dish of chops which was set before them, and the better 
part of the bottle of old port, Vv^hich served for its menstruum. 

“ We are well enough now,” said Mowbray, “ though we 
have had none of their d — d kickshaws.” 

“ A wame-fou’ is a wame-fou’,” said the writer, swabbing his 
greasy chops, “ whether it be of the barleymeal or the bran.” 

“ A cart-horse thinks so,” said Mowbray ; “ but we must do 
as others do, and gentlemen and ladies are of a different 
opinion.” 

“ The waur for themselves and the country baith, St. 
Ronan’s — it’s the jinketing and the jirbling wi’ tea and wi’ 
trumpery that brings our nobles to ninepence, and mony a het 
ha’-house to a hired lodging in the Abbev.” 

The young gentleman paused for a few minutes — filled a 
bumper, and pushed the bottle to the senior — then said abruptly, 
“ Do you believe in luck, Mick 1 ” 

“ In luck ? ” answered the attorney ; “ what do you mean by 
the question .? ” 

“ Why, because I believe in luck myself — in a good or bad 
run of luck at cards.” 

“ You wad have mair luck the day, if you had never touched 
them,” replied his confidant. 

“ That is not the question now,” said Mowbray,; “but what 
I wonder at is the wretched chance that has attended us miserable 
Lairds of St. Ronan’s for more than a hundred years, that we 
have always been getting worse in the world, and never better. 
Never has there been such a backsliding generation, as the 


ST. ROJVAN*S WELL. 


99 

parson would say — half the country once belonged to my 
ancestors, and now the last furrows of it seem to be flying.” 

“ Fleeing ! ” said the writer, “ they are barking and fleeing 
baith. — This Shaws Castle here, I’se warrant it flee up the 
chimney after the rest, were it not weel fastened down with your 
grandfather’s tailzie.” 

“ D — n the tailzie ! ” said Mowbray ; “ if they had meant to 
keep up their estate they should have entailed it when it was 
worth keeping ; to tie a man down to such an insignificant 
thing as St. Ronan’s, is like tethering a horse on six roods of a 
Highland moor.” 

“Ye have broke weel in on the mailing by your feus down 
at the Well,” said Meiklewham, “ and raxed ower the tether 
maybe a wee bit further than ye had ony right to do.” 

“ It was by your advice, was it not ? ” said the Laird. 

“ Fse ne’er deny it, St. Ronan’s,” answered the writer ; “ but 
I am such a gude-natured guse, that I just set about pleasing 
you as an auld wife pleases a bairn.” 

“ Ay,” said the man of pleasure, “ when she reaches it a 
knife to cut its own fingers with. — These acres would have 
been safe enough, if it had not been for your d — d advice.” 

“ And yet you were grumbling e’en now,” said the man of 
business, “ that you have not the power to gar the whole estate 
flee like a wild-duck across a bog ? Troth, you need care little 
about it ; for if you have incurred an irritancy — and sae thinks 
Mr. Wisebehind, the advocate, upon an A. B. memorial that I 
laid before him — your sister, or your sister’s good man, if she 
should take the fancy to marry, might bring a declarator, and 
evict St. Ronans’ frae ye in the course of twa or three sessions.” 

“ My sister will never marry,” said John Mowbray. 

“ That’s easily said,” replied the writer ; “ but as broken a 
ship’s come to land. If ony body kend o’ the chance she has 
o’ the estate, there’s mony a weel-doing man would think little 
of the bee in her bonnet.” 

“ Hark ye, Mr. Meiklewham,” said the Laird, “ I will be 
obliged to you if you will speak of Miss Mowbray with the 
respect due to her father’s daughter, and my sisterj’ 

“ Nae offence, St Ronan’s, nae offence,” answered the man 
of law ; “ but ilka man maun speak sae as to be understood, — 
that is, when he speaks about business. Ye ken yoursell, that 
Miss Clara is no just like other folks ; and were I you — it’s my 
duty to speak plain — I wad e’en gie in a bit scroll of a petition 
to the Lords, to be appointed Curator Bonis, in respect of her 
incapacity to manage her own affairs.” 


lOO 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


“ Meiklewhatn,” said Mowbray, you are a ” and then 

stopped short. 

What am I, Mr. Mowbray ? ” said Meiklewham, somewhat 
sternly — “ What am I .? I wad be glad to ken what I am.” 

“ A very good lawyer, I dare say,” replied St. Ronan’s, who 
was too much in the power of his agent to give way to his first 
impulse. “ But I must tell you, that rather than take such a 
measure against poor Clara, as you recommend, I would give 
her up the estate, and become an ostler or a postilion for the 
rest of my life.” 

“ Ah, St. Ronan’s,” said the man of law, “ if you had wished 
to keep up the auld house, you should have taken another 
trade, than to become an ostler or a postilion. What ailed 
you, man, but to have been a lawyer as weel as other folks ? 
My auld master had a wee bit Latin about rerum dd7nmos 
gentemque togatam, whilk signified, he said, that all lairds should 
be lawyers.” 

“ All lawyers are likely to become lairds, I think,” replied 
Mowbray ; “ they purchase our acres by the thousand, and pay 
us, according to the old story, with a multiplepoinding, as your 
learned friends call it, Mr. Meiklewham.” 

“ Weel — and mightna you have purchased as weel as other 
folks ? ” 

“Not I,” replied the Laird; “I have no turn for that ser- 
vice. I should only have wasted bombazine on my shoulders, 
and flour upon my three-tailed wig — should but have lounged 
away my mornings in the Outer House, and my evenings at the 
play-house, and acquired no more law than what would have 
made me a wise justice at a Small-debt Court.” 

“ If you gained little, you would have lost as little,” said 
Meiklewham ; “ and albeit ye were nae great gun at the bar, 
ye might aye have gotten a Sheriffdom, or a Commissaryship, 
amang the lave, to keep the banes green ; and sae ye might 
have saved your estate from deteriorating, if ye didna mend it 
muckle.” 

“Yes, but I could not have had the chance of doubling it, 
as I might have done,” answered Mowbray, “ had that incon- 
stant jade. Fortune, but stood a moment faithful to me. I tell 
you, Mick, that I have been within this twelvemonth, worth a 
hundred thousand — worth fifty thousand — worth nothing, but 
the remnant of this wretched estate, which is too little to do 
one good while it is mine, though, were it sold, I could start 
again, and mend my hand a little.” 

“ Ay, ay, just fling the helve after the hatchet,” said his 
legal adviser — “that’s a’ you think of. What signifies winning 


Sr, RONAA 'S, 


lOI 


r'::Lr.. 

a hundred thousand pounds, if you win them to lose them 
again ? ” 

“ What signifies it ? ” replied Mowbray. “ Why, it signifies 
as much to a man of spirit, as having won a battle signifies to a 
general — no matter that he is beaten afterw'ard in his turn, he 
knows there is luck for him as well as others, and so he has 
spirit to try it again. Here is the young Earl of Etherington 
will be amongst us in a day or two — they say he is up to every- 
thing — if I had but five hundred to begin with, I should be 
soon up to him.” 

“ Mr. Mowbray,” said Meiklewham, “ I am sorry for ye. I 
have been your house’s man of business — I may say, in some 
measure your house’s servant — and now I am to see an end of 
it all, and just by the lad that I thought maist likely to set it 
up again better than ever ; for, to do ye justice, you have aye 
had an ee to your ain interest, sae far as your lights gaed. It 
brings tears into my auld een.” 

“ Never weep for the matter, Mick,” answered Mowbray ; 
“ some of it will stick, my old boy, in your pockets, if not in 
mine — your service will not be altogether gratuitous, my old 
friend — the laborer is worthy of his hire.-” 

“ Weel I wot is he,” said the writer ; “ but double fees 
would hardly carry folk though some wark. But if ye will have 
siller, ye maun have siller — but, I warrant, it goes just where 
the rest gaed.” 

“ No, by twenty devils ! ” exclaimed M'owbray, “ to fail this 
time is impossible — Jack Wolverine was too strong for Ether- 
ington at anything he could name ; and 1 can beat Wolverine 
from the Land’s-End to Johnnie Groat’s — but there must be 
something to go upon — the blunt must be had, Mick.” 

“ Very likely — nae doubt — that is, always provided it can be 
had,” answered the legal adviser. 

“ That’s your business, my old cock,” said Mowbray. “ This 
youngster will be here perhaps to-morrow, with money in both 
pockets — he takes up his rents as he comes down, Mick — think 
of that, my old friend.” 

“ Weel for them that have rents to take up,” said Meikle- 
wham ; “ours are lying rather ower low to be lifted at present. 
— But are you sure this Eail is a man to mell with i* — are you 
sure ye can win of him, and that if you do, he can pay his los- 
ings, Mr. Mowbray ? — because I have kend mony ane come for 
wool, and gang hame shorn ; and though ye are a clever young 
gentleman, and I am bound to suppose ye ken as much about 
life as most folk, and all that, yet some gate or other ye have 


102 


ST. ROJVAAT'S WELL. 


aye come off at the losing hand, as ye have ower much reason 
to ken this day — howbeit ” 

“ Oh, the devil take your gossip, my dear Mick ! If you can 
give no help, spare drowning me with your pother. Why, man, 
I was a fresh hand — had my apprentice-fees to pay — and these 
are no trifles, Mick. — But what of that ? — I am free of the com- 
pany now, and can trade on my own bottom.” 

“ Aweel, aweel, I wish it may be sae,” said Meiklewham. 

“ It will be so, and it shall be so, my trusty friend,” replied 
Mowbray, cheerily, “ so you will but help me to the stock to 
trade with,” 

“ The stock ? — what d’ye ca’ the stock ? I ken nae stock 
that ye have left.’ 

“ But you have plenty, my old boy — Come, sell out a few of 
your three per cents ; I will pay difference — interest — exchange 
— everything.” 

“ Ay, ay— everything or naething,” answered Meiklewham ; 
“ but as you are sae very pressing, I hae been thinking — Whan 
is the siller wanted ? ” 

“ This instant — this day — to-morrow at furthest ! ” exclaimed 
the proposed borrower. 

“ Wh — ew ! ” whistled the lawyer, with a long prolongation 
of the note ; “ the thing is impossible.”. 

“ It must be, Mick, for all that,” answered Mr. Mowbray, 
who knew by experience that impossible^ when uttered by his 
accommodating friend in this tone, meant only, when interpreted, 
extremely difficult, and very expensive. 

“ Then it must be by Miss Clara selling her stock, now that 
ye speak of stock,” said Meiklewham ; “ I wonder ye didna 
think of this before.” 

“ I wish you had been dumb rather than that you had men- 
tioned it now,” said Mowbray, starting, as if stung by an adder 
— “ What, Clara’s pittance ! — the trifle my aunt left her for her 
own fanciful expenses — her own little private store, that she 
puts to so many good purposes — Poor Clara, that has so little ! 
— And why not rather your own. Master Meiklewham, who call 
yourself the friend and servant of our family ? ” 

“Ay, St. Ronan’s,” answered Meiklewham, “that is a very 
true — but service is nae inheritance ; and as for friendship, it 
begins at hame, as wise folk have said lang before our time. 
And for that matter, I think they that are nearest sib should 
take maist risk. You are nearer and dearer to your sister, St. 
Ronan’s, than you are to poor Saunders Meiklewham, that hasna 
sae muckle gentle blood as would supper up a hungry flea.” 

“I will not do this,” said St. Ronan’s walking up and down 


ST. TOiVAN^S WELL. 


103 

with much agitation ; for, selfish as he was, he loved his sister, 
and loved her the more on account of those peculiarities which 
rendered his protection indispensable to her comfortable exist- 
ence — “ I will not,” he said, “ pillage her, come on’t what will. 
I will rather go a volunteer to the Continent, and die like a 
gentleman.” 

He continued to pace the room in a moody silence, which 
began to disturb his companion, who had not been hitherto 
accustomed to see his patron take matters so deeply. At 
length he made an attempt to attract the attention of the 
silent and sullen ponderer. 

‘‘Mr. Mowbray” — no answer — “ I was saying, St. Ronan’s 
— still no reply. “ I have been thinking about this matter — 
and ” 

“And sir ? ” said St. Ron an’s, stopping short, and 

speaking in a stern tone of voice. 

“ And to speak truth I see little feasibility in the matter ony 
w’ay ; for if ye had the siller in your pocket to-day, it would be 
a’ in the Earl of Etherington’s the morn.” 

“ Pshaw ! you are a fool,” answered Mowbray. 

“ That is not unlikely,” said Meiklewham ; “ but so is Sir 
Bingo Binks, and yet he’s had the better of you, St. Ronan’s, 
this twa or three times.” 

“ It is false ! — he has not,” answered St. Ronan’s fiercely. 

“Weel I wot,” resumed Meiklewham, “he took you in about 
the saiimon fish, and some other wager ye lost to him this very 
day.” 

“ I tell you once more, Meiklewham, you are a fool, and no 
more up to my trim than you are to the longitude — Bingo is 
got sh}' — I must give him a little line, that is all — then I shall 
strike him to purpose^ — I am as sure of him as 1 am of the 
other — I know the fly they will both rise to — this cursed want 
of five hundred will do me out of ten thousand !” 

“ If you are so certain of being the bagster — so very certain 
I mean, of sweeping stakes, — what harm will Miss Clara come 
to by your having the use of her siller.? You can make it up to 
her for the risk ten times told.” 

“ And so I can, by Heaven ! ” said St. Ronan’s. “ Mick, 3 ^ou 
are right, and I am a scrupulous, chicken-hearted fool. Clara 
shall have a thousand for her poor five hundred — she shall, 

by . And I will carry her to Edinburgh for a season, oi 

perhaps to London, and we will have the best advice for her 
case, and the best company to divert her. And if they think 
her a little odd — why, d-— n me, I am her brother, and will 
bear her through it. Yes — yes — you’re right ; there can be no 


104 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


hurt in borrowing five hundred of her for a few days, when such 
profit may be made on’t, both for her and me. — Here, fill the 
glasses, my old boy, and drink success to it, for you are right.’’ 

“ Here is success to it, with all my heart,” answered Meikle- 
wham, heartily glad to see his patron’s sanguine temper arrive 
at this desirable conclusion, and yet willing to hedge in his 
own credit ; “ but it is you are right, and not me^ for I advise 
nothing, except on your assurances that you can make your ain 
of this English earl, and of this Sir Bingo — and if you can but 
do that, I am sure it would be unwise and unkind in ony ane 
of your friends to stand in your light.” 

“True, Mick, true,” answered Mowbray. — “And yet dice 
and cards are but bones and pasteboard, and the best horse 
ever started may slip a shoulder before he get to the winning- 
post — and so I wish Clara’s venture had not been in such a 
bottom. — But, hang it, care killed a cat — I can hedge as w'ell 
as any one, if the odds turn up against me — so let us have the 
cash, Mick.” 

“ Aha ! but there go two words to that bargain — the stock 
stands in my name, and Tam Turnpenny the banker’s, as 
trustees for Miss Clara — Now, get you her letter to us, desir- 
ing us to sell out and to pay you the proceeds, and Tam Turn- 
penny will let you have five hundred pounds instanfer^ on the 
faith of the transaction ; for I fancy you would desire a’ the 
stock to be sold out, and it will produce more than six hun- 
dred, or seven hundred pounds either — and I reckon you will 
be selling out the whole — it’s needless making twa bites of a 
cherry.” 

“ True,” answered Mowbray; “since we must be rogues, 
or something like it, let us make it worth our while at least ; 
so give me a form of the letter, and Clara shall copy it — that 
is, if she consents ; for you know she can keep her own opinion 
as well as any other woman in the world.” 

“ And that,” said Meiklewham, “ is as the wind will keep 
its way, preach to us as you like. But if I might advise about 
Miss Clara — I wad say naething mair than that I was stressed 
for the penny money ; for I mistake her muckle if she would 
like to see you ganging to pitch and toss wi’ this lord and 
tither baronet for her aunt’s three per cents — I ken she has 
some queer notions — she gives away the feck of the dividends 
on that very stock in downright charity.” 

_ “ And I am in hazard to rob the poor as well as my sister ! ” 
said Mowbray, filling once more his own glass and his friend’s. 
“ Come, Mick, no skylights — here is Clara's health — she is an 
angel— and I am — what I will not call myself, and suffer no 


ST. TOArAJV’S WELL. 


105 

Other man to call me. — But I shall win this time — I am sure I 
shall, since Clara’s fortune depends upon it.” 

“ Now, 1 think, on the other hand,” said Meiklewham, 
“ that if anything should chance wrang (and Heaven kens that 
the best-laid schemes will gang ajee), it will be a great comfort 
to think that the ultimate losers will only be the poor folk, that 
have the parish between them and absolute starvation — if your 
sister spent her ain siller, it would be a very different story.” 

“ Hush, Mick — for God’s sake, hush, mine honest friend,” 
said Mowbray ; “ it is quite true ; thou art a rare counselor, in 
time of need, and hast as happy a manner of reconciling a 
man’s conscience with his necessities, as might set up a score 
of casuists ; but beware, my most zealous counselor and con- 
fessor, how you drive the nail too far — I promise you some of 
the chaffing you are at just now rather abates my pluck. — Well 
— give me your scroll — I will to Clara with it — though I would 
rather meet the best shot in Britain, with ten paces of green 
sod betwixt us.” So saying, he left the apartment. 


CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 

FRATERNAL LOVE. 

Nearest of blood should still be next in love ; 

And when I see these happy children playing, 

While William gathers flowers for Ellen’s ringlets, '' 

And Ellen dresses flies for William’s angle, 

I scarce can think, that in advancing life. 

Coldness, unkindness, interest, or suspicion, 

Will e’er divide that unity so sacred. 

Which Nature bound at birth. 

Anonymous. 

When Mowbray had left his dangerous adviser, in order to 
steer the course which his agent had indicated, without offering 
to recommend it, he went to the little parlor v*^hich his sister 
was wont to term her own, and in which she spent great part 
of her time. It was fitted up with a sort of fanciful neatness ; 
and in its perfect arrangement and good order, formed a strong 
contrast to the other apartments of the old and neglected 
mansion-house. A number of little articles lay on the work- 
table, indicating the elegant, and, at the same time, the un- 
settled turn of the inhabitant’s mind. There were unfinished 


io6 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


drawings, blotted music, needle-work of various kinds, and 
many other little female tasks ; all undertaken with zeal, and 
so far prosecuted with art and elegance, but all flung aside 
before any one of them was completed. 

Clara herself sat upon a little' low couch by the window, 
reading, or at least turning over the leaves of a book, in which 
she seemed to read. But instantly starting up when she saw 
her brother, she ran toward him with the most cordial cheer- 
fulness. 

“ Welcome, welcome, my dear John ; this is very kind of 
you to come to visit to your recluse sister. I have been trying to 
nail my eyes and my understanding to a stupid book here, 
because they say too much thought is not quite good for me. 
But, either the man^s dulness, or my want of the power of 
attending, makes my eyes pass over the page, just as one seems 
to read in a dream, without being able to comprehend one word 
of the matter. You shall talk to me, and that will do better. 
What can I give you to show that you are welcome } I am 
afraid tea is all I have to offer, and that you set too little store 
by.” 

“ I shall be glad of a cup at present,” said Mowbray, “ for I 
wish to speak with you.” 

“ Then Jessie shall made it ready instantly,” said Miss 
Mowbray, ringing, and giving orders to her waiting-maid — 
“ but you must not be ungrateful, John, and plague me. with 
any of the ceremonial for your fete — ‘ sufficient for the day is 
the evil thereof.’ I will attend, and play my part as prettily as 
you can desire ; but to think of it beforehand would make both 
my head and my heart ache ; and so I beg you will spare me 
on the subject.” 

“ Why, you wild kitten,” said Mowbray, “ you turn every 
day more shy of human communication — we shall have you 
take the woods one day, and become as savage as the Princess 
Caraboo. But I will plague you about nothing if I can help it. 
If matters go not smooth on the great day, they must e’en 
blame the dull thick head that had no fair lady to help him in 
his need. But, Clara, I had something more material to say 
to you — something indeed of the last importance.” 

“ What is it ^ ” said Clara, in a tone of voice approaching to 
a scream — “ In the name of God, what is it ? You know not 
how you terrify me ! ” 

“ Nay, you start at a shadow, Clara,” answered her brother. 
“ It is no such uncommon matter neither — good faith, it is the 
most common distress in the world, so far. as. I know the world 
— I am sorely pinched for money.” 


S’T. I^ONAN^S WELL. 


107 

“ Is that all ? ” replied Clara, in a tone which seemed to her 
brother as much to underrate the difficulty, when it was 
explained, as her fears had exaggerated it before she heard its 
nature. 

“Is that all 1 Indeed it is all, and comprehends a great 
deal of vexation. I shall be hard run unless I can get a cer- 
tain sum of money — and I must e’en ask you if you can help 
me ? ” 

“ Help you ? ” replied Clara ; “ Yes, with all my heart — but 
you know my purse is a light one — more than half of my last 
dividend is in it, however, and I am sure, John, I shall be 
happy if it can serve you— especially as that will at least show 
that your wants are but small ones.” 

“ Alas, Clara, if^^ou would help me,” said her brother, half 
repentant of his purpose, “ you must draw the neck of the goose 
w'hich lays the golden eggs — you must lend me the whole 
stock.” 

“ And why not, John,” said the simple-hearted girl, “ if it 
will do you a kindness ? Are you not my natural guardian ? 
Are you not a kind one And is not my little fortune entirely 
at your disposal ? You will, I am sure, do all for the best.” 

“ I fear I may not,” said Mowbray, starting from her, and 
more distressed by her sudden and unsuspicious compliance, 
than he would have been by difficulties or remonstrance. In 
the latter case, he would have stifled the pangs of conscience 
amid the manoeuvres which he must have resorted to for obtain- 
ing her acquiescence ; as matters stood, there was all the differ- 
ence between slaughtering a tame and unresisting animal, and 
pursuing wild game, until the animation of the sportsman’s 
exertions overcomes the internal sense of his own cruelty. The 
same idea occurred to Mowbray himself. 

“ By G — he said, “ this is like shooting the bird sitting, 
— Clara,” he added, “ I fear this money will scarce be em- 
ployed as you would wish.” 

“ Employ it as you yourself please, my dearest brother,” she 
replied, “ and I will believe it is all for the best.” 

“ Nay, I am doing for the best,” he replied ; “ at least, I am 
doing what must be done, for I see no other way through it — 
so all you have to do is to copy this paper, and bid adieu to 
bank dividends — for a little while at least. I trust soon to 
double this little matter for you, if FcJrtune will but stand my 
friend.” 

“ Do not trust to Fortune, John,” said Clara, smiling, though 
with an expression of deep melancholy. “ Alas ! she has never 
been a friend to our family — not at least for many a day.” 


io8 


ST. RONAIV^S WELL. 


“ She favors the bold, say my old grammatical exercises,” 
answered her brother ; “ and I must trust her, were she as 
changeable as a weathercock. — And yet — if she should jilt me 1 
— What will you do — what will you say, Clara, if I am unable, 
contrary to my hope, trust, and expectation, to repay you this 
money within a short time ? ” 

“ Do ! ” replied Clara ; “ I must do without it, you know ; 
and for saying, I will not say a word.” 

“ True,” replied Mowbray, “ but your little expenses — ^your 
charities — your halt and blind — your round of paupers ? ” 

“Well, I can manage all that too. Look you here, John, 
how many half-worked trifles there are. The needle or the 
pencil is the resource of all distressed heroines, you know ; and 
I promise you, though I have been a little idle and unsettled of 
late, yet, when I do set about it, no Emmeline or Etheline of 
them all ever sent such loads of trumpery to market as I shall, 
or made such wealth as I will do. I dare say Lady Penelope, 
and all the gentry at the Well, will purchase, and will raffle, 
and do all sorts of things to encourage the pensive performer. 
I will send them such lots of landscapes with sap-green trees, 
and mazareen-blue rivers, and portraits that will terrify the 
originals themselves — and handkerchiefs and turbans, with 
needle-work scalloped exactly like the walks on the Belvidere 
— Why, I shall become a little fortune in the first season.” 

“ No, Clara,” said John, gravely, for a virtuous resolution 
had gained the upper hand in his bosom, while his sister ran on 
in this manner. — “ We will do something better than all this. 
If this kind help of yours does not fetch me through, I am deter- 
mined I will cut the whole concern. It is but standing a laugh 
or two, and hearing a gay fellow say, Dammie, Jack, are you 
turned clodhopper at last ! — that is the worst. Dogs, horses, 
and all, shall go to the hammer ; we will keep nothing but your 
pony, and I will trust to a pair of excellent legs. There is 
enough left of the old acres to keep us in the way you like best 
and that I will learn to like. I will work in the garden, and 
work in the forest, mark my own trees, and cut them myself, 
keep my own accounts, and send Saunders Meiklewham to the 
devil.” 

“That last is the best resolution of all, John,” said Clara; 
“ and if such a day should come round, I should be the happiest 
of living creatures — I should not have a grief left in the world 
— if I had, you should never see or hear of it — it should lie 
here,” she said, pressing her hand on her bosom, “ buried as 
deep as a funeral urn in a cold sepulchre. Oh ! could we not 
begin such a life to-morrow If it is absolutely necessary that 


ST. TOJVAJV^S WELL, 


109 

this trifle of money should be got rid of first, throw it into the 
river, and think you have lost it amongst gamblers and horse- 
jockeys.” 

Clara’s eyes, which she fondly fixed on her brother’s face, 
glowed through the tears which her enthusiasm called into 
them, while she thus addressed him. Mowbray, on his part, 
kept his looks fixed on the ground, with a flush on his cheek, 
that expressed at once false pride and real shame. 

At length he looked up : — My dear girl,” he said, “ how 
foolishly you talk, and how foolishly I, that have twenty things 
to do, stand heje listening to you ! All will go smooth on my 
plan — if it should not, we have yours in reserve, and I swear 
to you I will adopt it. The trifle which this letter of yours 
enables me to command, may have luck in it, and we must not 
throw up the cards while we have a chance of the game — Were 
I to cut from this moment these few hundreds would make us 
little better or little worse — So you see we have two strings to 
our bow. Luck is sometimes against me, that is true — but 
upon true principle, and playing on the square, I can manage 
the best of them, or my name is not Mowbray. Adieu, my 
dearest Clara.” So saying, he kissed her cheek with a more 
than usual degree of affection. 

Ere he could raise himself from his stooping posture, she 
threw her arm kipdly over his neck, and said with a tone of the 
deepest interest, “ My dearest brother, your slightest wish has 
been, and ever shall be, a law to me — Oh ! if you would but 
grant me one request in return ! ” 

“ What is it, you silly girl ” said Mowbray, gently disen- 
gaging himself from her hold. — “ What is it you can have to 
ask that needs such a solemn preface } — Remember, I hate 
prefaces ; and when I happen to open a book, always skip 
them.” 

“ Without preface, then, my dearest brother, will you, for 
my sake, avoid those quarrels in which the people yonder are 
eternally engaged "i I never go down there but I hear of some 
new brawl ; and I never lay my head down to sleep, but I 
dream that you are the victim of it. Even last night ” 

“ Nay, Clara, if you begin to tell your dreams, we shall 
never have done. Sleeping, to be sure, is the most serious 
employment of your life — for as to eating, you hardly match a 
sparrow ; but I entreat you to sleep without dreaming, or to 
keep your visions to yourself. — Why do you keep such fast hold 
of me ? — What on earth can you be afraid of 1 — Surely you do 
not think of the blockhead Binks, or any other of the good 
folks below yonder, dared to turn on me ? Egad, I wish they 


no 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


would pluck up a little mettle, that I might have an excuse for 
drilling therh. Gad, I would soon teach them to follow at 
heel.” . 

“ No, John,” replied his sister; “ it is not of such men as 
these that I have any fear — and yet, cowards are sometimes 
driven to desperation, and become more dangerous than better 
men — but it is not such as these that I fear. But there are 
men in the world whose qualities are beyond their seeming — 
whose spirit and courage lie hidden, like metals in the mine, 
under an unmarked or a plain exterior. — You may meet with 
such — you are rash and headlong, and apt to exercise your wit 
without always weighing consequences, and thus ” 

“ On my word, Clara,” answered Mowbray, “ you are in a 
most sermonizing humor this morning ! the parson himself 
could not have been more logical or profound. You have only 
to divide your discourse into heads, and garnish it with con- 
clusions for use, and conclusions for doctrine, and it might be 
preached before a whole presbytery, with every chance of in- 
struction and edification. But I am a man of the world, my 
little Clara ; and though I wish to go in death’s way as little as 
possible, I must not fear the raw head and bloody bones 
neither. — And who the devil is to put the question to me ? — I 
must know that, Clara, for you have some especial person in 
your eye when you bid me take care of quarreling.” 

Clara could not become paler than was her usual com- 
plexion ; but her voice faltered as she eagerly assured her 
brother, that she had no particular person in her thoughts. 

“Clara,” said, her brother, “do you remember, when there 
was a report of a bogle * in the upper orchard, when we were 
both children ? — Do you remember how you were perpetually 
telling me to take care of the bogle, and keep away from its 
haunts } — And do you remember my going on purpose to detect 
the bogle, finding the cow-boy, with a shirt about him, busied 
in pulling pears, and treating him to a handsome drubbing ? — ■ 
lam the same Jack Mowbray still, as ready to face danger, 
and unmask imposition; and your fears, Clara, will only make 
me watch more closely, till I find out the real object of them. 
If you warn me of quarreling with some one, it must be be- 
cause you know some one who is not unlikely to quarrel with 
me. You are a flighty and fanciful girl, but you have sense 
enough not to trouble either yourself or me on a point of honor, 
save when there is some good reason for it.” 

Clara once more protested, and it was with the deepest 


Bogle — in English, Goblin. 


ST. RON AN'S WELL. 


Ill 


anxiety to be believed, that what she had said arose only out of 
the general consequences which she apprehended f^om the line 
of conduct her brother had adopted, and which, in her appre- 
hension, was so likely to engage him in the broils that divided 
the good company at the spring. Mowbray listened to her 
explanation with an air of doubt, or rather incredulity, sipped 
a cup of tea which had for some time been placed before him ; 
and at length replied, “ Well, Clara, whether I am right or 
wrong in my guess, it would be cruel to torment you any more, 
remembering what you have just done for me. But do justice 
to your brother, and believe, that when you have anything to 
ask of him, an explicit ^declaration of your wishes will answer 
your purpose much better than any ingenious oblique attempts 
to influence me. Give up all thoughts of such, my dear Clara 
— you are but a poor manoeuverer, but were you the very 
Machiavel of your sex, you should not turn the flank of John 
Mowbray.” 

He left the. room as he spoke, and did not return, though 
his sister twice called upon him. It is true that she uttered 
the word brother so faintly, that perhaps the sound did not 
reach his ears. — “ He is gone,” she said, “ and I have had no 
power to speak out ! I am like the wretched creatures, who, it 
is said, lie under a potent charm, that prevents them alike from 
shedding tears and from confessing their crimes — Yes, there is 
a spell on this unhappy heart, and either that must be dis- 
solved, or this must break.” 


CHAPTER TWELFTH. 

THE CHALLENGE. 


A slight note I have about me, for the delivery of which you must excuse me. 
It is an office which friendship calls upon me to do, and no way offen- 
sive to you, as I desire nothing but right on both sides. 

King AND no King. 

The intelligent reader may recollect that Tyrrel departed 
from the Fox Hotel on terms not altogether so friendly toward 
the company as those under which he entered it. Indeed, it oc- 
curred to him, that he might probably have heard something 
further on the subject, though, amidst matters of deeper and 
more anxious consideration, the idea only passed hastily through 
his mind ; and two days having gone over without any message 


II2 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


from Sir Bingo Binks, the whole affair glided entirely out of his 
memory. ^ 

The truth was, that although never old woman took more 
trouble to collect and blow up with her bellows the embers of 
her decayed fire, than Captain MacTurk kindly underwent for 
the purpose of puffing into a flame the dying sparkles of the 
Baronet’s courage, yet two days were spent in fruitless confer- 
ences before he could attain the desired point. He found Sir 
Bingo on these different occasions in all sorts of different moods 
of mind, and disposed to view the thing in all shades of light, 
except what the Captain thought was the true one. — He was 
in a drunken humor — in a sullen humor — in a thoughtless 
and vilipending humor — in every humor but a fighting one. 
And when Captain MacTurk talked of the reputation of the 
company at the Well, Sir Bingo pretended to take offence, said 
the company might go to the devil, and hinted that he “ did 
them sufficient honor by gracing them with his countenance, 
but did not mean to constitute them any judges of his affairs. 
The fellow was a raff, and he would have nothing to do with 
him.” 

Captain MacTurk would willingly have taken measures against 
the Baronet himself, as in a state of contumacy, but was opposed 
by Winterblossom and other members of the committee, who 
considered Sir Bingo as too important and illustrious a member 
of their society to be rashly expelled from a place not honored 
by the residence of many persons of rank ; and finally insisted 
that nothing should be done in the matter without the advice of 
Mowbray, whose preparations for his solemn festival on the 
following Thursday had so much occupied him, that he had not 
lately appeared at the Well. 

In the meanwhile, the gallant Captain seemed to experience 
as much distress of mind, as if some stain had lain on his own 
most unblemished of reputations. He went up and down upon 
the points of his toes, rising up on his instep with a jerk which 
at once expressed vexation and defiance — He carried his nose 
turned up in the air, like that of a pig when he snuffs the 
approaching storm — He spoke in monosyllables when he spoke 
at all ; and — what perhaps illustrated in the strongest manner 
the depth of his feelings — he refused, in face of the whole com- 
pany, to pledge Sir Bingo in a glass of the Baronet’s peculiar 
cognac. 

At length, the whole Well was alarmed by the report brought 
by a smart Outrider, that the young Earl of Etherington, re- 
ported to be rising on the horizon of fashion as a star of the 
first magnitude, intended to pass an hour, or a day or a week. 


Sr. i^ONAN'S WELL. 


113 

as it might happen (for his lordship could not be supposed to 
know his own mind), at St. Ronan’s Well. 

This suddenly put all in motion. Almanacs were opened 
to ascertain his lordship’s age, inquiries were made concerning 
the extent of his fortune, his habits were quoted, his tastes were 
guessed at, and all that the ingenuity of the Managing Com- 
mittee could devise was resorted to, in order to recommend their 
Spa to this favorite of fortune. An express was despatched to 
Shaws Castle with the agreeable intelligence which fired the 
train of hope that led to Mowbray’s appropriation of his sister’s 
capital. He did not, however, think proper to obey the sum- 
mons to the Spring ; for, not being aware in what light the 
Earl might regard the worthies there assembled, he did not 
desire to be found by his lordship in any strict connection with 
them. 

Sir Bingo Binks was in a different situation. The bravery 
with which he had endured the censure of the place began to 
give way, when he considered that a person of such distinction 
as that which public opinion attached to Lord Etherington, 
should find him bodily indeed at St. Ronan’s, but, so far as 
society was concerned, on the road toward the ancient city of 
Coventry ; and his banishment thither, incurred by that most 
unpardonable offence in modern morality, a solecism in the code 
of honor. Though sluggish and inert when called to action, 
the Baronet was by no means an absolute coward ; or, if so, he 
was of that class which fights when reduced to extremity. He 
manfully sent for Captain McTurk, who waited upon him with 
a grave solemnity of aspect, which instantly was exchanged for 
a radiant joy, when Sir Bingo, in few words, empowered him to 
carry a message to that d — d strolling artist, by whom he had 
been insulted three days since. 

“ By Cot,” said the Captain, “ my exceeding goot and 
excellent friend, and I am happy to do such a favor for you ! 
and it’s w'ell you have thought of it yourself ; because, if it had 
not been for some of our very goot and excellent friends, that 
would be putting their spoon into another folk’s dish, I should 
have been asking you a civil question myself, how^ you came to 
dine with us, with all that mud and mire which Mr. Tyrrel’s 
grasp has left upon the collar of your coat — you understand me. 
— But it is much better as it is, and I will go to the man with 
all the speed of light ; and though, to be sure, it should have 
been sooner thought of, yet let me alone to make an excuse for 
that, just in my own civil way — better late thrive than never 
do well, you know. Sir Bingo ; and if you have made him wait 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


114 

a little while for his morning, you must give him the better 
measure, my darling.” 

So saying, he awaited no reply, lest peradventure the com- 
mission with which he was so hastily and unexpectedly charged, 
should have been clogged with some condition of compromise. 
No such proposal, however, was made on the part of the doughty 
Sir Bingo, who eyed his friend,, as he hastily snatched up his 
ratan to depart, with a dogged look of obstinacy, expressive, to 
use his own phrase, of a determined resolution to come up to 
the scratch ; and when he heard the Captain’s parting footsteps, 
and saw the door shut behind him, he valiantly whistled a few 
bars of Jenny Sutton, in token he cared not a farthing how the 
matter was to end. 

With a swifter pace than his half-pay leisure usually 
encouraged, or than his habitual dignity permitted. Captain 
MacTurk cleared the ground betwixt the Spring and its gay 
vicinity, and the ruins of the Aultoun, where reigned our friend 
Meg Dods, the sole assertor of its ancient dignities. To the 
door of the Cleikum Inn the Captain addressed himself as one 
too much accustomed to war to fear a rough reception ; al- 
though at the very first aspect of Meg, who presented her person 
at the half-opened door, his military experience taught him 
that his entrance into the place would, in all probability, be 
disputed. 

“ Is Mr. Tyrrel at home } ” was the question ; and the answer 
w^as conveyed by the counter-interrogation, “ Wha may ye be 
that speers ? ” 

As the most polite reply to this question, and an indulgence, 
at the same time, of his own taciturn disposition, the Captain 
presented to Luckie Dods the fifth part of an ordinary playing 
card, much grimed with snuff, which bore on its blank side his 
name and quality. But Luckie Dods rejected the information 
thus tendered, with contemptuous scorn. 

“ Nane of your deil’s play-books for me,” said she ; “ it’s an 
ill world since sic prick-my- dainty doings came in fashion — It’s 
a poor tongue that canna tell its ain name, and I’ll hae nane of 
your scarts upon pasteboard.” 

“ I am Captain MacTurk of the regiment,” said the 

Captain, distaining further answer. 

“ MacTurk ? ” repeated Meg, with an emphasis which in- 
duced the owner of the name to reply, 

“ Yes, honest woman — MacTurk — Hector MacTurk — have 
you any objections to my name, good wife ? ” 

“Nae objections have I,” answered Meg; “its e’en an ex- 
cellent name for a heathen. — But, Captain MacTurk, since sae 


ST, SOA^AJV^S WELL. 


it be that ye are a captain, ye may e’en face about and march 
your ways hame again, to the tune of Dumbarton drums ; for 
ye are ganging to have nae speech of Maister Tirl, or ony lodger 
of mine.” 

“ And wherefore not 1 ” demanded the veteran ; “ and is this 
of your own foolish head, honest woman, or has your lodger 
left such orders t ” 

“Maybe he has and maybe no,” answered Meg, sturdily; 
“and I ken nae mair right that ye suld ca’ me honest woman, 
than I have to ca’ you honest man, whilk is as far frae my 
thoughts as it wad be from Heaven’s truth.” 

“ The woman is deleerit ! ” said Captain McTurk ; “ but 
coom, coom — a gentleman is not to be misused in this way 
when he comes on a gentleman’s business ; so make you a bit 
room on the doorstane, that I may pass by you, or I will make 
room for myself, by Cot, to your small pleasure.” 

And so saying, he assumed the air of a man who was about 
to make good his passage. But Meg, without deigning further 
reply, flourished around her head the hearth-broom, which she 
had been employing to its more legitimate purpose, when dis- 
turbed in her housewifery by Captain McTurk. 

“ I ken your errand weel eneugh. Captain — and I ken yer- 
sell* Ye are ane of the folk that gang about yonder setting 
folks by the lugs, as callants set their collies to fight. But ye 
sail come to nae lodger o’ mine, let a-be Maister Tirl, wi’ ony 
sic ungodly errand ; for I am ane that will keep God’s peace 
and the King’s within my dwelling.” 

So saying, and in explicit token of her peaceable intentions, 
she again flourished her broom. 

The veteran instinctively threw himself under Saint George’s 
guard, and drew two paces back, exclaiming, “ That the woman 
was either mad, or as drunk as whisky could make her ; ” an 
alternative which afforded Meg so little satisfaction, that she 
fairly rushed on her retiring adversary, and began to use her 
weapon to fell purpose. 

“ Me drunk, ye scandalous blackguard ! ” (a blow with the 
broom interposed as parenthesis), “ me, that am fasting from all 
but sin and bohea ! ” (another whack). 

The Captain, swearing, exclaiming, parrying, caught the 
blows as they fell, showing much dexterity in single stick. The 
people began to gather; and how long his gallantry might have 
maintained itself against the spirit of self-defence and revenge 
must be left uncertain, for the arrival of Tyrrel, returned from 
a short walk, put a period to the contest. 

Meg, who had a great respect for her guest, began to feel 


ii6 


S7\ KONAN^S WELL. 


ashamed of her own violence, and slunk into the house ; ob- 
serving, however, that she trowed she had made her hearth- 
broom and the auld heathen’s pow right weel acquainted. The 
tranquility which ensued upon her departure gave Tyrrel an 
opportunity to ask the Captain, whom he at length recognized, 
the me-aning of this singular affray, and whether 'the visit was 
intended for him ; to which the veteran replied, very discom- 
posedly, that “he should have known that long enough ago, if 
he had had decent people to open his door, and answer a civil 
question, instead of a flyting madwoman, who was worse than 
an eagle,” he said, “ or a mastiff-bitch, or a she-bear, or any 
other female beast in the creation.” 

Half-suspecting his errand, and desirous to avoid unneces- 
sary notoriety, Tyrrel, as he showed the Captain to the parlor 
which he called his own, entreated him to excuse the rudeness 
of his landlady, and to pass from the topic to that which had 
procured him the honor of this visit. 

“And you are right, my good Master Tyrrel,” said the 
Captain, pulling down the sleeves of his coat, adjusting his 
handkerchief and breast-ruffle, and endeavoring to recover the 
composure of manner becoming his mission, but still adverting 

incfignantly to the usage he had received — By , if she 

had but been a man, if it were the King himself — However, 
Mr. Tyrrel, I am come on a civil errand — and very civilly I 
have been treated — the auld bitch should be set in the stocks, 

and be tamned ! — My friend. Sir Bingo — By , I shall never 

forget that woman’s insolence — if there be a constable or a 
cat-o’-nine-tails within ten miles ” 

“ I perceive. Captain,” said Tyrrel, “ that you are too much 
disturbed at this moment to enter upon the business which has 
brought you here — if you will step into my bedroom, and make 
use of some cold water and a towel, it will give you the time to 
compose yourself a little.” 

“ I shall do no such thing, Mr. Tyrrel,” answered the Cap- 
tain, snappishly ; “ I do not want to be composed at all, and I 
do not want to stay in this house a minute longer than to do 
my errand to you on my friend’s behalf — And as for this tamned 
woman, Dods ” 

“ You will in that case forgive my interrupting you. Captain 
MacTurk, as I presume your errand to me can have no refer- 
ence to this strange quarrel with my landlady, with which I 
have nothing to 

“ And if I thought that it had, sir,” said the Captain, inter- 
rupting Tyrrel in his turn, “ you should have given me satis- 
faction before you was a quarter of an hour older — Oh, I 


S7\ J^OA^AN\S WELL, 


117 

would give five pounds to the pretty fellow that would say, 
Captain MacTurk, the woman did right ! ” 

“ I certainly will not be that person you wish for, Captain,” 
replied Tyrrel, “ because I really do not know who was in the 
right or wrong ; but I am certainly sorry that you should have 
met with ill usage, when your purpose was to visit me.” 

“ Well, sir, if you are concerned,” said the man of peace, 
snappishly, “ so am I, and there is an end of it. — And touch- 
ing my errand to you — you cannot have forgotten that you 
treated my friend, Sir Bingo Binks, with singular incivility?” 

“ 1 recollect nothing of the kind. Captain,” replied Tyrrel. 
“ I remember that the gentleman, so called, took some uncivil 
liberties in laying foolish bets concerning me, and that I 
treated him, from respect to the rest of the company, and the 
ladies in particular, with a great degree of moderation and 
forbearance.” 

‘‘ And you must have very fine ideas of forbearance,” re- 
plied the Captain, “ when you took my good friend by the 
collar of the coat, and lifted him out of your way, as if he had 
been a puppy dog ! My good Mr. Tyrrel, I can assure you he 
does not think that you have forborne him at all, and he has 
no purpose to forbear you ; and I must either carry back a suffi- 
cient apology, or you must meet in a quiet way, with a good 
friend on each side. — And this was .the errand I came on, when 
this tamned woman, with the hearth-broom, who is an enemy 
to all quiet and peaceable proceedings ” 

“ We will forget Mrs. Dods for the present, if you please, 
Captain MacTurk,” said Tyrrel — “ and, to speak to the present 
subject, you will permit me to say, that I think this summons 
comes a little of the latest. You know best as a military man, 
but I have always understood that such differences are usually 
settled immediately after they occur — not that I intend to 
baulk Sir Bingo’s inclinations upon the score of delay, or dny 
other account.” 

“I dare say you will not — I dare say you vill not, Mr. 
Tyrrel,” answered the Captain — “ I am free to think that you 
know better what belongs to a gentleman. — And as to time — 
look you, my good sir, there are different sorts of people in this 
world, as there are different sorts of firearms. There are your 
hair-trigger’d rifles, that go off just at the right moment, and 
in the twinkling of an eye, and that, Mr. Tyrrel, is your true 
man of honor ; — and there is a sort of person that takes a 
thing up too soon, and sometimes backs out of it, like your 
rubbishy Birmingham pieces, that will at one time go off at 
half-cock, and at another time burn priming without going off 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


1 18 

at all ; — then again there are pieces that hang fire— or I should 
rather say, that are like the matchlocks which the black fellows 
use in the East Indies — there must be some blowing of the 
match, and, so forth, which occasions delay, but the piece carries 
true enough after all.” 

And your friend Sir Bingo’s valor is of this last kind. 
Captain — I presume that is the inference. I should have 
thought it more like a boy’s cannon, which is fired by means of 
a train, and is but a pop-gun after all.” 

“ I cannot allow of such comparisons, sir,” said the Cap- 
tain ; “ you will understand that I come here as Sir Bingo’s 
friend, and a reflection on him will be an affront to me.” 

“ I disclaim all intended offence to you. Captain — I have 
no wish to extend the number of my adversaries, or to add to 
them the name of a gallant officer like yourself,” replTed Tyrrel. 

“ You are too obliging, sir,” said the Captain, drawing him- 
self up with dignity. “ By , and that was said very hand- 

somely ! — Well, sir, and shall I not have the pleasure of carry- 
ing back any explanation from you to Sir Bingo .? — I assure 
you it would give me pleasure to make this matter hand- 
somely up.” 

“To Sir Bingo, Captain MacTurk, I have no apology to 
offer — I think I treated him more gently than his impertinence 
deserved.”* 

“ Och, och ! ’’ sighed the Captain, with a strong Highland 
intonation; “then there is no more to be said, but just to 
settle time and place ; for pistols, I suppose, must be the 
weapons.” 

“ All these matters are quite the same to me,” said Tyrrel ; 
“ onlv, in respect of time, I should wish it to be as speedy as 
possible — What say you to one, afternoon, this very day — You 
may name the place.” 

At one, afternoon,” replied the Captain, deliberately, 
“ Sir Bingo will attend you — the place may be the Buck-stane ; 
for as the whole company go to the water-side to-day to eat a 
kettle of fish,* there will be no risk of interruption. — And 
whom shall I speak to, my good friend, on your side of the 
quarrel ! ” 

“ Really, Captain,” replied Tyrrel, “ that is a puzzling 
question— I have no friend here — I suppose you could hardlv 
act for both t ” 

“It would be totally, absolutely, and altogether out of the 
question, my good friend,” replied MacTurk. “ But if you will 


Note D. Kettle of fish. 


ST. RO /STANDS WELL, 


■ T^^9 

trust to me, I will bring up a friend on your part from the 
Well, who, though you have hardly seen him before, will settle 
matters for you as well as if you had been intimate for twenty 
years — and I will bring up the Doctor too, if I can get him 
unloosed from the petticoat of that fat widow Blower, that he 
has strung himself upon/’ 

“ I have no doubt you will do everything with perfect 
accuracy. Captain. At one o’clock, then, we meet at the Buck- 
stane — Stay, permit me to see you to the door.” 

“ By , and it is not altogether so unnecessary,” said the 

Captain ; for the tamned woman with the besom might have 
some advantage in that long dark passage, knowing the ground 
better than I do — tamn her, I will have amends on her, if 
there be whipping post, or ducking-stool, or a pair of stocks in 
the parish ! ” And so saying, the Captain trudged off, his 
spirits ever and anon agitated by recollection of the causeless 
aggression of Meg Dods, and again composed to a state of 
happy serenity by the recollection of the agreeable arrangement 
which he had made between Mr. Tyrrel and his friend Sir Bingo 
Binks. 

We have heard of men of undoubted benevolence of character 
and disposition, whose principal delight was to see a miserable 
criminal, degraded alike by his previous crimes, and the sentence 
which he had incurred, conclude a vicious and wretched life, by 
an ignominious and painful death. It was some such incon- 
sistency of character which induced honest Captain MacTurk, 
who had really been a meritorious officer, and was a good- 
natured, honorable, and well-intentioned man, to place his 
chief delight in setting his friends by the ears, and then acting 
as umpire in the dangerous rencontres, which, according to his 
code of honor, were absolutely necessary to restore peace and 
cordiality. We leave the explanation of such anomalies to the 
labors of craniologists, for they seem to defy all the researches 
of the Ethic philosopher. 


ST. jRONAN^S WELL, 




CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Evans . — I pray you now, good Master Slender’s serving-man, and friend 

Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius ? 
Sletider.—'^lTaxv, Sir, the City-ward, the" Park-ward, every way ; Old 

Windsor wav, and every wav. 

Merry W IVES OF Windsor. 

Sir Bingo Binks received the Captain’s communication with 
the same dogged sullenness he had displayed at sending the 
challenge ; a most ungracious humph, ascending, as it were, 
from the very bottom of his stomach, through the folds of a Bel- 
cher handkerchief, intimating his acquiescence, in atone nearly 
as gracious as that with which the drowsy traveler acknowl- 
edges the intimation of the slip-shod ostler, that it is on the 
stroke of five, and the horn will sound in a minute. Captain 
MacTurk by no means considered this ejaculation as expressing 
a proper estimate of his own trouble and services. “ Humph ? ” 
he replied ; “ and what does that mean. Sir Bingo ? Have not 
I here had the trouble to put you just into the neat road ; and 
would you have been able to make a handsome affair out of it 
at all, after you had let it hang so long in the w'ind, if I had not 
taken on myself to make it agreeable to the gentleman, and 
cooked as neat a mess out of it as I have seen a Frenchman do 
out of a stale sprat 1 ” 

Sir Bingo saw it w^as necessary to mutter some intimation of 
acquiescence and acknowledgment, which, how^ever inarticulate, 
was sufficient to satisfy the veteran, to whom the adjustment of 
a personal affair of this kind w^as a labor of love, and who now, 
kindly mindful of his promise to Tyrrel, hurried away as if he 
had been about the most charitable action upon earth, to secure 
the attendance of some one as a witness on the stranger’s part. 

Mr. Winterblossom w-as the person whom MacTurk had in his 
own mind pitched upon as the fittest person to perform this act 
of benevolence, and he lost no time in communicating his w'ish 
to that worthy gentleman. But Mr. Winterblossom, though a 
man of the world, and well enough acquainted with such matters, 
was by no means so passionately addicted to them as was the 
man of peace. Captain Hector MacTurk. As a bon vivant, he 
hated trouble of any kind, and the shrewd selfishness of his dis- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


121 


position enabled him to foresee that a good deal might accrue 
to all concerned in the course of this business. He therefore 
coolly replied, that he knew nothing of Mr. Tyrrel — not even 
whether he was a gentleman or not ; and, besides, he had re- 
ceived no regular application in his behalf — he did not, there- 
fore, feel himself at all inclined to go to the field as his second. 
This refusal drove the poor Captain to despair. He conjured 
his friend to be more public-spirited, and entreated him to con- 
sider the reputation of the Well, which was to them as a com- 
mon country, and the honor of the company to which they 
both belonged, and of which Mr. Winterblossom was in a 
manner the proper representative, as being, with consent of all, 
the perpetual president. He reminded him how many quarrels 
had been nightly undertaken and departed from on the ensuing 
morning, without any suitable consequences — said, “that people 
began to talk of the place oddly; and that, for his own part, he 
found his own honor so nearly touched, that he had begun to 
think he himself would be obliged to bring somebody or other 
to account for the general credit of the We*ll ; and now, just 
when the most beautiful occasion had arisen to put everything 
on a handsome footing, it was hard — it was cruel — it was most 
unjustifiable — in Mr. Winterblossom to decline so simple a 
matter as was requested of him.” 

Dry and taciturn as the Captain was on all ordinary occasions 
he proved on the present, eloquent and almost pathetic ; for the 
tears came into his eyes when he recounted the various quarrels 
which had become addled, notwithstanding his best endeavors 
to hatclrthem into an honorable meeting: and here was one, 
at length, just chipping the shell, like to be smothered for want 
of the most ordinary concession on the part of Winterblossom. 
In short, that gentleman could not hold out any longer. “ It 
was,” he said, a very foolish business, he thought ; but to 
oblige Sir Bingo and Captain MacTurk, he had no objection to 
walk with them about noon as far as the Buck-stane, although 
he must observe the day was hazy, and he had felt a prophetic 
twinge or two, which looked like a visit of his old acquaintance 
podagra.” 

“ Never mind that, my excellent friend,” said the Captain, 
“ a sup out of Sir Bingo’s flask is like enough to put that to 
rights ; and, by my soul, it is not the thing he is like to leave 
.behind him on this sort of occasion, unless I be far mistaken in 
my man.” 

“ But,” said Winterblossom, “ although I comply with your 
wishes thus far. Captain MacTurk, I by no means undertake for 
certain to back this same Master Tyrrel, of whom I know nothing 


122 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


at all, but only agree to go to the place in hopes of preventing 
mischief.” 

“ Never fash your beard abobt that, Mr. Winterblossom,” 
replied the Captain ; “ for a little mischief, as you call it, is 
become a thing absolutely necessary to the credit of the place ; 
and, I am sure, whatever be the consequences, they cannot in 
the present instance be very fatal to anybody ; for here is a 
young fellow that, if he should have a misfortune, nobody will 
miss, for nobody knows him ; then there is Sir Bingo, whom 
everybody knows so well, that they will miss him all the less.” 

“ And there will be Lady Bingo, a wealthy and handsome 
young widow,” said Winterblossom, throwing his hat upon his 
head with the grace and pretension of former days, and sighing 
to see, as he looked in the mirror, how much time, that had 
whitened his hair, rounded his stomach, wrinkled his brow and 
bent down his shoulders, had disqualified him, as he expressed 
it, “ for entering for such a plate.” 

Secure of Winterblossom, the Captain’s next anxiety was 
to obtain the presence of Dr. Quackleben, who, although he 
wrote himself M.D., did not by any means decline practice as 
a surgeon when any job offered for which he was likely to be 
well paid, as was warranted in the present instance, the wealthy 
Baronet being a party principally concerned. The Doctor, 
therefore, like the eagle scenting the carnage, seized, at the first 
word, the huge volume of morroco leather which formed his 
case of portable instruments, and uncoiled before the Captain, 
with ostentatious display, its formidable and glittering contents, 
upon which he began to lecture as upon a copious and interest- 
ing text, until the man of war thought it necessary to give him 
a word of caution. 

“ Och,” says he, “ I do pray you. Doctor, to carry that packet 
of yours under the breast of your coat, or in your pocket, or 
somewhere out of sight, and by no means to produce or open 
it before the parties. For although scalpels, and tourniquets, 
and pincers, and the like, are very ingenious implements, and 
pretty to .behold, and are also useful when time and occasion 
call for them, yet I have known the sight of them take away a 
man’s fighting stomach, and so lose their owner a job. Dr. 
Quackleben.” 

“ By my faith. Captain MacTurk,” said the Doctor, “ you 
speak as if you were graduated ! — I have known these treacher- 
ous articles play their master many a cursed trick. The very 
sight of my forceps, without the least effort on my part, once 
cured an inveterate toothache of three days’ duration, pre- 
vented the extraction of a carious molendinar, which it was the 


ST. RONAN'S WELjl. 


123 

very end of their formation to achieve, and sent me home 
minus a guinea. — But hand me that great-coat, Captain, and we 
will place the instruments in ambuscade until they are called 
into action in due time. I should think something will happen 
— Sir Bingo is a sure shot at a moor-cock.” 

“Cannot say,” replied MacTurk ; “I have known the 
pistol shake many a hand that held the fowling-piece fast 
enough. Yonder Tyrrel looks like a teevilish cool customer — 
I watched him the whole time I was delivering my errand, and 
I can promise you he is mettle to the back-bone.” 

“Well — I will have my bandages ready secnndic7n artem^'' 
replied the man of medicine. “We must guard against hasmor- 
rhage — Sir Bingo is a plethoric subject. — One o’clock you say 
— at the Buck-stane — 1 will be punctual.” 

“ Will you not walk with us ? ” said Captain MacTurk, who 
seemed willing to keep his w'hole convoy together on this occa- 
sion, lest, peradventure, any of them had fled from under his 
patronage. 

“ No,” replied the Doctor, “ I must first make an apology 
to worthy Mrs. Blower, for I had promised her my arm down 
to the river-side, w^here they are all to eat a kettle of fish.” 

“ By Cot, and I hope w'e shall make them a prettier kettle 
of fish than was ever seen at St. Ronan’s,” said the Captain, 
rubbing his hands. 

“Don’t say 7 ve, Captain,” replied the cautious Doctor; “I 
for one have nothing to do with the meeting — w-ash my hands 
of it. No, no, I cannot afford to be clapt up as accessory. — 
You ask me to meet you at the Buck-stane — no purpose 
assigned’ — I am willing to oblige my worthy friend. Captain 
MacTurk — w'alk that way, thinking of nothing particular — 
hear the report of pistols — hasten to the spot — fortunately just 
in time to prevent the most fatal consequences — chance most 
opportunely to have my case of instruments wdth me, indeed, 
generally walk wdth them about me — 7 iunqua 7 n 71071 paratus — 
then give my professional definition of the w-ound and state of 
the patient. That is the w^ay to give evidence. Captain, before 
sheriffs, coroners, and such sort of folks — never commit one’s 
self — it is a rule of our profession.” 

“ Well, well, Doctor,” answ^ered the Captain, “you know 
your own ways best ; and so you are but there to give a chance 
of help in case of accident, all the laws of honor will be fully 
complied with. But it w’ould be a foul reflection upon me, as a 
man of honor, if I did not take care that there should be some- 
body to come in thirdsman between death and my principal.” 

At the awful hour of one, afternoon, there arrived upon the 


124 


ST, TONAN^S WELL. 


appointed spot Captain MacTurk, leading to the field the 
valorous Sir Bingo, not exactly straining like a grayhound in 
the slips, but rather looking moddy like a butcher’s bull-dog, 
which knows he must fight since his master bids him. Yet the 
Baronet showed no outward flinching or abatement of courage, 
excepting that the tune of Jenny Sutton, which he had whistled 
without intermission since he left the Hotel, had, during the 
last half-mile of their walk, sunk into silence ; although, to look 
at tlie muscles of the mouth, projection of the lip, and vacancy 
of the eye, it seemed as if the notes were still passing through 
his mind, and that he whistled Jenny Sutton in his imagina- 
tion. Mr. Winterblossom came two minutes after this happy 
pair, and the Doctor was equally punctual. 

“Upon my soul,” said the former, “this is a mighty silly 
affair, Sir Bingo, and might, I think, be easily taken up, at less 
risk to all parlies than a meeting of this kind. You should 
recollect. Sir Bingo, that you have much depending on your 
life — you are a married man, Sir Bingo.” 

Sir Bingo turned the quid in his mouth, and squirted out 
the juice in a most coachman-like manner. 

“ Mr. Winterblossom,” said the Captain, “ Sir Bingo has in 
this matter put himself in my hands, and unless you think your- 
self more able to direct his course than 1 am, I must frankly tell 
you, that I will be disobliged by your interference. You may 
speak to your own friend as much as you please ; and if you find 
yourself authorized to make any proposal, I shall be desirous to 
lend an ear to it on the part of my worthy principal. Sir Bingo. 
But I will be plain with you, that I do not greatly approve of 
settlements upon the field, though I hope 1 am a quiet and 
peaceable man ; yet here is our honor to be looked after in the 
first place ; and moreover, I must insist that every proposal for 
accommodation shall originate with 3 ’our party or yourself.” 

“ My party ? ” answered Winterblossom ; “ why realh^, though 
I came hither at your request. Captain MacTurk, yet I must see 
more of the matter, ere I can fairly pronounce myself second to 
a man I never saw but once.” 

“ And, perhaps, may never see again,” said the Doctor, look- 
ing at his watch ; “ for it is ten minutes past the hour, and here 
is no Mr. Tyrrel.” 

“ Hey 1 what’s that you say. Doctor ? ” said the Baronet, 
awakened from his apathy. 

“ He speaks tamned nonsense,” said the Captain, pulling 
out a huge, old-fashioned, turnip-shaped implement, with a black- 
ened silver dial-plate. “ It is not above three minutes after one 


Sr. RON’AN'S WELL, 


*25 

by the true time, and I will uphold Mr. Tyrrel to be a man of 
his word — never saw a man take a thing more coolly.” 

“ Not more coolly than he takes his walk this way,” said the 
Doctor ; for the hour is as I tell you — remember, I am profes- 
sional — have pulses to count by the second and half-second — 
my timepiece must go as true as the sun.” 

. ^ “ And I have mounted guard a thousand times by my watch,” 
said the Captain ; “ and I defy the devil to say that Hector 
MacTurk did not always discharge his duty to the twentieth 
part of the fraction of a second — it was my great grandmother, 
Lady Killbracklin’s, and I will maintain its reputation against 
any timepiece that ever went upon wheels.” 

“ Well then, look at your own watch, Captain,” said Winter- 
blossom, “ for time stands still with no man, and while we 
speak the hour advances. On my word, I think this Mr. Tyrrel 
intends to humbug us.” 

“ Hey ! what’s that you say ” said Sir Bingo, once more 
starting from his sullen reverie. 

“ I shall not look at my watch upon no such matter,” said 
the Captain; “nor will I any way be disposed to doubt your 
friend’s honor, Mr. Winterblossom.” 

‘‘'My friend.? ” said Mr. Winterblossom ; “ I must tell you 
once more. Captain, that this Mr. Tyrrel is no friend of mine 
— none in the world. He is your friend. Captain MacTurk ; 
and I own, if he keeps us waiting much longer on this occa- 
sion, I will be apt to consider his friendship as of very little 
value.” 

“ And how' dare you then say that the man is my friend ? ” 
said the Captain, knitting his brows in a most formidable 
manner. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! Captain,” answered Winterblossom, coolly, 
if not contemptuously — “keep all that for silly boys; I have 
lived in the w'orld too long either to provoke quarrels, or to 
care about them. So, reserve your fire ; it is all thrown aw^ay 
on such an old cock as I am. But I really wish we knew 
whether this fellow means to come — tw^enty minutes past the 
hour — I think it is odds that you are bilked. Sir Bingo .? ” 

“ Bilked ! hey ! ” cried Sir Bingo ; “ by Gad, I always 
thought so — I wagered with Mowbray he was a raff — 1 am had, 
by Gad. I’ll wait no longer than the half-hour, by Gad, were he 
a field marshal.” 

“ You will be directed in that matter by your friend, if you 
please, Sir Bingo,” said the Captain. 

“.D — n me if I will,” returned the Baronet — “ Friend ; a 
pretty friend, to bring me out here on such a fool’s errand I I 


126 


ST, TOjVAjV’S well. 


knew the fellow was a raff — but never thought you, with all your 
chaff about honor, such a d — d spoon as to bring a message from 
a fellow who has fled the pit ! ’’ 

“ If you regret so much having come here to no purpose,” 
said the Captaui, in a very lofty tone, “ and if you think I have 
used’ you like a spoon, as you say, I will have no objection 
in life to take Mr. Tyrrel’s place, and serve your occasion, my 
boy ! ” 

“ py 1 and if you like it, you may fire away, and wel- 

come,”" said Sir Bingo ; “ and I’ll spin a crown for first shot, 
for 1 do not understand being brought here for nothing, d — n 
me ! ” 

“And there was never man alive so ready as I am to give 
you something to stay your stomach,” said the irritable High- 
lander. 

“ Oh fie, gentleman ! fie, fie, fie ! ” exclaimed the pacific 
Mr. Winterblossom — “ For shame. Captain — Out upon you. 
Sir Bingo, are you mad ? — what, principal and second ! — the 
like was never heard of — never.” 

The parties were in some degree recalled to their more cool 
recollections by this expostulation, yet continued a short quarter 
deck walk to and fro, upon parallel lines, looking at each other 
sullenly as they passed, and bristling like two dogs who have a 
mind to quarrel, yet hesitate to commence hostilities. During 
this promenade, also, the perpendicular and erect carriage of 
the veteran, rising on his toes at evc’y step, formed a whimsi- 
cal contrast with the heavy loutish shuffle of the bulky Baronet, 
who had by dint of practice, very nearly attained that most 
enviable of all carriages, the gait of a shambling Yorkshire 
ostler. His coarse spirit was now thoroughly kindled, and like 
iron, or any other baser metal, which is slow in receiving heat, 
it retained long the smouldering and angry spirit of resentment 
that had originally brought him to the place, and now rend- 
ered him walling to wreak his uncomfortable feelings upon the 
nearest object which occurred, since the first purpose of his 
coming thither W'as frustrated. In his owm phrase, his pluck was 
up and finding himself in a fighting humor, bethought it a pity, 
like Bob Acres, that so much good courage should be thrown 
away. As, however, that courage after all consisted chiefly in ill 
humor ; and as, in the demeanor of the Captain, he read noth- 
ing deferential or deprecatory of his wrath, he began to listen 
with more attention to the arguments of Mr. Winterblossom, 
who entreated them not to sully, by private quarrel the honor they 
that day so happily acquired without either blood or risk. 

“ It was now,” he said, “ three-quarters of an hour past the 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


127 

time appointed for this person, who calls himself Tyrrel, to 
meet Sir Bingo Binks. Now, instead of standing squabbling 
here, which serves no purpose, I propose we should reduce to 
writing the circumstances which attend this affair, for the 
satisfaction of the company at the Well, and that the memo- 
randum shall be regularly attested by our subscriptions ; after 
which, I shall further humbly propose that it be subjected to the 
revision of the Committee of Management.” 

“ I object to any revision of a statement to which my name 
shall be appended,” said the Captain. 

“ Right — very true. Captain,” said the complaisant Mr. 
Winterblossom ; “ undoubtedly you know best, and your signa- 
ture is completely sufficient to authenticate this transaction — • 
however, as it is the most important which has occurred since 
the Spring was established, I propose we shall all sign the 
prods verbal., as I may term it.” 

“ Leave me out, if you please,” said the Doctor, not much 
satisfied that both the original quarrel and the by-battle had 
passed over without any occasion for the offices of a Machaon ; 
“ leave me out, if you please ; for it does not become me to be 
ostensibly concerned in any proceedings which have had for 
their object a breach of the peace. And for the importance of 
waiting here for an hour, in a fine afternoon, it is my opinion 
there was a more important service done to the Well of St. 
Ronan’s, when I, Quentin Quackleben, M.D., cured Lady 
Penelope Penfeather of her seventh attack upon the nerves, 
attended with febrile symptoms.” 

No disparagement to your skill at all. Doctor,” said Mr. 
Winterblossom ; “ but I conceive the lesson which this fellow 
has received will be a great means to prevent improper persons 
from appearing at the Spring hereafter ; and, for my part, I 
shall move that no one be invited to dine at the table in future, 
till his name is regularly entered as a member of the company, 
in the lists at the public room. And I hope both Sir Bingo 
and the Captain will receive the thanks of the company, for 
their spirited conduct in expelling the intruder. — Sir Bingo, will 
you allow me to apply to your flask — a little twinge 1 feel, 
owing to the dampness of the grass.” 

Sir Bingo, soothed by the consequence he had acquired, 
residily imparted to the invalid a thimbleful of his cordial, which, 
we believe, had been prepared by some cunning chemist in the 
wilds of Glenlivat. He then filled a bumper, and extended it 
toward the veteran, as an unequivocal symptom of reconcilia- 
tion. The real turbinacious flavor no sooner reached the nose 
of the Captain, than the beverage was turned down his throat 


128 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


with symptoms of most unequivocal applause. ‘‘ I shall have some 
hope of the young fellows of this d^y/’ he said, “ now that they 
begin to give up their Dutch and French distilled waters, and 
stick to genuine Highland ware. By Cot, it is the only liquor 
fit for a gentleman to drink in a morning, if he can have the 
good fortune to come by it, you see.” 

“ Or after dinner either. Captain,” said the Doctor, to whom 
the glass had passed in rotation ; “ it is worth all the wines in 
France for flavor, and more cordial to the system besides.” 

“ And now,” said the Captain, “ that we may not go off the 
ground with anything on our stomachs worse than the whisky, 
I can afford to say (as Captain Hector MacTurk’s character is 
tolerably well established), that I am sorry for the little differ- 
ence that has occurred betwixt me and my worthy friend, Sir 
Bingo, here.” 

“And since you are so civil, Captain,” said Sir Bingo, 
“why, I am sorry too — only it would put the devil out of 
temper to lose so fine a fishing day — wind south — fine air on 
the pool — water settled from the flood — just in trim — and I 
dare say three pairs of hooks have passed over my cast before 
this time.” 

He closed this elaborate lamentation with a libation of the 
same cordial which he had imparted to his companions ; and 
they returned in a body to the Hotel, where the transactions of 
the morning were soon afterward announced to the company, 
by the following programme : — 

STATEMENT. 

“ Sir Bingo Binks, baronet, having found himself aggrieved 
by the uncivil behavior of an individual calling himself Francis 
Tyrrel, now or lately a resident at the Cleikum Inn, Aultoun of 
St. Ronan’s; and having empowered Captain Hector MacTurk 
to wait upon the said Mr. Tyrrel to demand an apology, under 
the alternative of personal satisfaction, according to the laws 
of honor and the practice of gentlemen, the said Tyrrel volun- 
tarily engaged to meet the said Sir Bingo Binks, baronet, at the 
Buck-stane, near St. Ronan’s Burn, upon this present day, being 
Wednesday August. In consequence of which appoint- 

ment, we the undersigned, did attend at the place named, from 
one o’clock till two, without seeing or hearing anything what- 
ever of the said Francis Tyrrel, or any one in his behalf — which 
fact we make thus publicly known, that all men, and par- 
ticularly the distinguished company assembled at the Fox 
Hotel, may be duly apprised of the character and behavior of 


ST: RONAN\^ WELL, 


129 

the said Francis Tyrrel, in case of his again presuming to in- 
trude himself into the society of persons of honor. 

“ The Fox Inn and Hotel, St. Ronan’s Well — August 18 — •, 
(Signed) “ Bingo Binks. 

“ Hector MacTurk. 

“ Philip Winterblossom.” 

A little lower followed this separate attestation : 

“ I, Quentin Quackleben, M.D., F.R.S., D.E., B.L., X.Z., 
etc. etc., being called upon to attest what I know in the said mat- 
ter, do hereby verify, that, being by accident at the Buck-stane, 
near St. Ronan’s Burn, on this present day, at the hour of one 
afternoon, and chancing to remain there for the space of nearly 
an hour, conversing with Sir Bingo Binks, Captain MacTurk, 
and Mr. Winterblossom, we did not, during that time, see or 
hear anything of or from the person calling himself Francis 
Tyrrel, whose presence at that place seemed to be expected by 
the gentleman I have just named.” This affiche was dated 
like the former, and certified under the august hand of Quentin 
Quackleben, M.D., etc. etc. etc. 

Again, and prefaced by the averment that an improper 
person had been lately introduced into the company of St. 
Ronan’s Well, there came forth a legislative enactment, on the 
part of the committee, declaring, “that no cne shall in future 
be invited to dinners, or balls, or other entei tainments of the 
Well, until their names shall be regularly entered in the books 
kept for the purpose at the rooms.” Lastly, there was a vote 
of thanks to Sir Bingo Binks and Captain MacTurk for their 
spirited conduct, and the pains which they had taken to 
exclude an improper person from the company at St. Ronan’s 
Well. 

These annunications speedily became the magnet of the 
day. All idlers crowded to peruse them ; and it would be 
endless to notice the “God bless me’s,” — the “Lord have a 
care of us,” — the “ Saw you ever the like’s ” of gossips, any 
more than the “ Dear me’s ” and “Oh, laa s ” of the titupping 
misses, and the oaths of the pantalooned or buckskin’d beaux. 
The character of Sir Bingo rose like the stocks at the news of 
a despatch from the Duke of Wellington, and, what was extia- 
ordinary, attained some consequence even in the estimation of 
his lady. All shook their heads at the recollection of the unlucky 
Tyrrel, and found out much in his manner and address which 
convinced them that he was but an adventurer and swindler. 
A few, however, less partial to the Committee of Management 
(for whenever there is an administration, there will soon arise 


ST. JV/CLL. 


130 

an opposition), whispered among themselves, that, to give the 
fellow his due, the man, be he what he would, had only come 
among them, like the devil, when he was called for — And 
honest Dame Blower blessed herself when she heard of such 
bloodthirsty doings as had been intended, and “ thanked G^d 
that honest Doctor Kickherben had come to nae harm amang 
a’ their nonsense.” 


CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 

THE CONSULTATION. 

Clown . — I hope here be proofs. 

Measure for Measure. 

The borough of lies, as all the world knows, about four- 

teen miles distant from St. Ronan’s, being the county town 
of that shire, which, as described in the Tourist’s Guide, num- 
bers among its objects of interest that gay and popular watei 
ing-place, whose fame, no douBt, will be greatly enhanced by 
the present annals of its earlier history. As it is at present 
unnecessary to be more particular concerning the scene of our 
story, we will fill up the blank left in the first name w'ith the 
fictitious appellation of Marchthorn, having often found our- 
selves embarrassed in the course of a story, by the occurrence 
of an ugly hiatus, which we cannot always at first sight fill 
up, with the proper reference to the rest of the narrative. 

Marchthorn, then, was an old-fashioned Scottish town, the 
street of which, on market-day, showed a reasonable number 
of stout great-coated yeomen, bartering or dealing for the vari- 
ous commodities of their farms ; and on other days of the 
week, only a few forlorn burghers, crawling about like half- 
awakened flies, and watching the town steeple till the happy 
sound of twelve strokes from Time’s oracle should tell them it 
was time to take their meridian dram. The narrow windows 
of the shops intimated very imperfectly the miscellaneous con- 
tents of the interior, where every merchant, as the shopkeepers 
of Marchthorn were termed, more Scotico, sold everything that 
could be thought of. As for manufactures, there were none, 
except that of the careful Town-Council, who were mightily 
busied in preparing the warp and woof, which, at the end of 
every five or six years, the town of Marchthorn contributed, for 


ST, SONANTS WELL. 


131 

the purpose of weaving the fourth or fifth part of a member of 
Parliament. 

In such a town it usually happens that the Sheriff-clerk, es- 
pecially supposing him agent for several lairds of the higher 
order, is possessed of one of the best-looking houses ; and such 
was that of Mr. Bindloose. None of the smartness of the 
brick-built and brass-hammered mansion of a southern attorney 
appeared indeed in this mansion, which was a tall, thin, grim- 
looking building, in the centre of the town, with narrow win- 
dows and projecting gables, notched into that sort of descent, 
called crow-steps, and having the lower casements defended 
by stancheons of iron ; for Mr. Bindloose, as frequently hap- 
pens, kept a branch of one of the two national banks, which 
had been lately established in the town of Marchthorn. 

Toward the door of this tenement, there advanced slowly 
up the ancient, but empty streets of this famous borough, a ve- 
hicle, which, had it appeared in Piccadilly, would have furnished 
unremitted laughter for a week, and conversation for a twelve- 
month. It was a two-wheeled vehicle, which claimed none of 
the modern appellations of tilbury, tandem, dennet, or the like ; 
but aspired only to the humble name of that almost forgotten 
accommodation, a whiskey ; or, according to some authorities, 
a tim-whiskey. Green was, or had been, its original color, 
and it was placed sturdily and safely low upon its little old- 
fashioned wheels, which bore much less than the usual propor- 
tion to the size of the carriage which they sustained. It had a 
calash head, which had been pulled up, in consideration either 
to the dampness of the morning air, or to the retiring delicacy 
of the fair form which, shrouded by leathern curtains, tenanted 
this venerable specimen of antediluvian coach-building. 

But, as this fair and modest dame noway aspired to the skill 
of a charioteer, the management of a horse, which seemed 
as old as the carriage he drew, was in the exclusive charge of an 
old-fellow in a postilion’s jacket, whose gray hairs escaped on 
each side of an old-fashioned velvet jockey-cap, and whose left 
shoulder was so considerably elevated above his head, that it 
seemed as if, with little effort, his neck might have been tucked 
under his arm, like that of a roasted grouse-cock. The gallant 
equerry was mounted on a steed as old as that which toiled 
betwixt the shafts of the carriage, and which he guided by a 
leading rein. Goading one animal with his single spur, and 
stimulating the other with his whip, he effected a reasonable 
trot upon the causeway, which only terminated when the 
whiskey stopped at Mr. Bindloose’s door — an event of import- 
ance enough to excite the curiosity of the inhabitants of that 


* 5 * 7 : ROATAN^S WELL. 


132 

and the neighboring houses. Wheels were laid aside, needles 
left sticking in the half-finished seams, and many a nose, spec- 
tacled and unspectacled, was popped out of the adjoining win- 
dows, which had the good fortune to command a view of Mr. 
Bindloose’s front door. The faces of two or three giggling 
clerks were visible at the barred casements of which we have 
spoken, much amused at the descent of an old lady from this 
respectable carriage, whose dress and appearance might possi- 
bly have been fashionable at the time when her equipage was 
new. A satin cardinal, lined with gray squirrels’ skin, and a 
black silk bonnet, trimmed with crape, were garments which did 
not now excite the respect which in their fresher days they had 
doubtless commanded. But there was that in the features of 
the wearer, which would have commanded Mr. Bindloose’s best 
regard, though it had appeared in far worse attire ; for he be- 
held the face of an ancient customer, who had always paid her 
law expenses with the ready penny, and whose accompt with 
the bank was balanced by a very respectable sum at her credit. 
It was, indeed, no other than our respected friend, Mrs. Dods 
of the Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan’s, Aultoun. 

Now her arrival intimated matter of deep import. Meg 
was a person of all others most averse to leave her home, where, 
in her own opinion at least, nothing went on well without her 
immediate superintendence. Limited, therefore, as was her 
sphere, she remained fixed in the centre thereof ; and few as 
were her satellites, they were under the necessity of performing 
their revolutions around her, while she herself continued 
stationary. Saturn, in fact, would be scarce more surprised at 
a passing call from the Sun, than Mr. Bindloose at this unex- 
pected visit of his old client. In one breath he rebuked the 
inquisitive impertinence of his clerks, in another stimulated his 
housekeeper, old Hannah — for Mr. Bindloose was a bluff 
bachelor — to get tea ready in the green parlor; and while 
yet speaking, was at the side of the whiskey, unclasping the 
curtains, rolling down the apron, and assisting his old friend to 
dismount. 

“ The japanned tea-caddie, Hannah — the best bohea — bid 
Tib kindle a spark of fire — the morning’s damp — Draw in the 
giggling faces of ye, ye d — d idle scoundrels, or laugh at your 
ain toom pouches — it will be lang or your weeldoing fill them.” 
This was spoken, as the honest lawyer himself might have said, 
in transitu^ the rest by the side of the carriage. “ My stars, 
Mrs. Dods, and is this really your ain sell, in pt'opria persona ) 
— Wha lookit for you at such a time of day? — Anthony, how’s 
a’ wi’ ye, Anthony ? — so ye hae taken the road again, Anthony 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


133 

— help us down wi’ the apron, Anthony — that will do. — Lean 
on me, Mrs. Dods — help your mistress, Anthony — put the 
horses in my stable — the lads will give you the key. — Come 
away, Mrs. Dods — I am blithe to see you straight your legs on 
the causeway of our auld borough again — come in by, and we’ll 
see to get you some breakfast for ye hae been asteer early this 
morning.” 

“ I am a sair trouble to you, Mr. Bindloose,” said the old 
lady, accepting the offer of his arm, and accompanying him into 
the house ; “ I am e’en a sair trouble to you, but I could not 
rest till I had your advice on something of moment.” 

“ Happy will I be to serve you, my guid auld acquaintance,” 
said the Clerk ; “ but sit you down — sit you down — sit you 
down, Mrs. Dods — meat and mass never hindered wark. Ye 
are something overcome wi’ your travel — the spirit canna aye 
bear through the flesh, Mrs. Dods ; ye should remember that 
your life is a precious one, and ye should take care of your 
health, Mrs. Dods.” 

My life precious ! ” exclaimed Meg Dods : “ nane o’ your 
whullywhaing, Mr. Bindloose — Deil ane wad miss the auld 
girning alewife, Mr. Bindloose, unless it were here and there a 
puir body, and maybe the auld house-tyke, that wadna be sae 
weel guided, puir fallow.” 

“ Fie, fie ! Mrs. Dods,” said the Clerk, in a tone of friendly 
rebuke ; “ it vexes an auld friend to hear ye speak of yourself 
in that respectless sort of a way ; and, as for quitting us, I 
bless God I have not seen you look better this half-score of 
years. But maybe you will be thinking of setting your house 
in order, which is the act of a carefu’ and of a Christian 
woman — Oh ! it’s an awfu’ thing to die intestate, if we had 
grace to consider it”’ .. ■ 

“ Aweel, I daur say I’ll consider that some day soon, Mr. 
Bindloose ; but that’s no my present errand.” 

“ Be it what it like, Mrs. Dods, ye are right heartily wel- 
come here, and we have a’ the day to speak of the business in 
h2iwd—festma lente^ that is the true law language — hooly and 
fairly, as one may say — ill treating of business with an empty 
stomach — and here comes your tea, and I hope Hannah has 
made it to your taste.” 

Meg sipped her tea — confessed Hannah’s skill in the mysteries 
of the Chinese herb — sipped again, then tried to eat a bit of 
bread and butter, with very indifferent success ; and not with- 
standing the lawyer’s compliments to her good looks, seemed, 
in reality, on the point of becoming ill. 

“ In the deil’s name, what is the matter ? ” said the lawyer,. 


ST, RONA/V^S WELL. 


134 

too well read in a profession where sharp observacion is peculi- 
arly necessary to suffer these symptoms of agitation to escape 
him. “ Ay, dame, ye are taking this business of yours deeper 
to heart than ever I kend you take onything. Ony o’ your 
banded debtors failed, or like to fail ? What then, cheer ye up 
— you can afford a little loss, and it canna be ony great matter, 
or I would doubtless have heard of it.” 

In troth, but it is a loss, Mr. Bindloose ; and what say ye 
to the loss of a friend ? ” 

This was a possibility which had never entered the lawyer’s 
long list of calamities, and he was at some loss to conceive what 
the old lady could possibly mean by so sentimental a profusion. 
But just as he began to come out with his “ Ay, ay, we are all 
mortal, Fiia mcerta., 7nors certissima ! ” and two or three more 
pithy reflections, which he was in the habit of uttering after 
funerals, when the will of the deceased was about to be opened 
— just then Mrs. Dods was pleased to become the expounder 
of her own oracle. 

“ I see how it is, Mr. Bindloose,” she said; “ I maun tell 
my ain ailment, for you are no likely to guess it ; and so, if ye 
will shut the door, and see that nane of your giggling callants 
are listening in the passage, I will e’en tell you how things 
stand with me.” 

Mr. Bindloose hastily arose to obey her commands, gave a 
cautionary glance into the Bank-office, and saw that his idle 
apprentices were fast at their desks — turned the key upon them, 
as if it were in a fit of absence, and then returned, not a little 
curious to know what could be the matter with his old friend ; 
and leaving off all further attempts to put cases, quietly drew 
his chair near hers, and awaited her own time to make her com- 
munication. 

“ Mr. Bindloose,” said she, “ I am no sure that you may 
mind, about six or seven years ago, that there were twa daft 
English callants, lodgers of mine, that had some trouble from 
auld St. Ronan’s about shooting on the Spring-well-head 
muirs.” 

“ I mind it asweel as yesterday, Mistress,” said the Clerk; 
“ by the same token you gave me a note for my trouble (which 
wasna worth speaking about), and bade me no bring in a bill 
against the puir bairns — ye had aye a kind heart, Mrs. Dods.” 

Maybe, and maybe no, Mr. Bindloose — that is just as I 
find folk. — But concerning these lads, they baith left the coun- 
try, and as I think, in some ill blude wi’ ane another, and now 
the auldest and the doucest of the twa came back again about a 
fortnight sin’ syne, and has been my guest ever since.” 


ST. TONAJV^S WELL. 


m 

“ Aweel, and I trust he is not at his auld tricks again, good- 
wife ? ” answered the Clerk. “ I havena sae muckle to say 
either wi’ the new Sheriff or the Bench of Justices as I used to 
hae, Mrs. Dods — and the Procurator-Fiscal is very severe on 
poaching, being borne out by the new Association — few of our 
auld friends of the Killnakelty are able to come to the sessions 
now, Mrs. Dods.” 

“ The waur for the country, Mr. Bindloose,” replied the old 
lady— “ they were decent, considerate men, that didna plague 
a puir herd callant muckle about a moorfowl or a mawkin, unless 
he turned common fowler— Sir Robert Ringhorse used to say 
the herd lads shot as mony gleds and pyots as they did game. 
— But new lords new laws — naething but fine and imprisonment, 
and the game no a feather the plentier. If I wad hae a brace 
or twa of birds in the house, as everybody looks for them after 
the twelfth — I ken what they are like to cost me — And what 
for no ? — risk maun be paid for. — There is John Pirner himsell, 
that has keepit the muir-side thirty years, in spite of a’ the 
lairds in the country, shoots, he tells me, now-a-days, as if he 
felt a rape about his neck.” 

“ It wasna about ony game business, then, that you wanted 
advice } ” said Bindloose, who, though somewhat of a digresser 
himself, made little allowance for the excursions of others from 
the subjects in hand. 

“ Indeed is it no, Mr. Bindloose,” said Meg ; “ but it is e’en 
about this unhappy callant that I spoke to you about. — Ye 
maun ken I have cleiket a particular fancy to this lad, Francis 
Tirl — a fancy that whiles surprises my very sell, Mr. Bindloose, 
only that there is nae sin in it.” 

“ None — none in the world, Mrs. Dods,” said the lawyer, 
thinking at the same time within his own mind — “ Oho ! the 
mist begins to clear up — the young poacher has hit the mark, 
I see — winged the old barren gray-hen ! — ay, ay — marriage 
contract, no doubt — but I manm gie her line. — Ye are a wise 
woman, Mrs. Dods,” he continued aloud, “ and can doubtless 
consider the chances and the changes of human affairs.” 

“ But I could never have considered what has befallen this 
puir lad, Mr. Bindloose,” said Mrs. Dods, “ through the malice 
of wicked men. — He lived then, at the Cleikum, as I tell you, 
for mair than a fortnight, as quiet as a lamb on a lea-rig — a 
decenter lad never came within my door — ate and drank eneugh 
for the gude of the house, and nae mair then was for his ain 
gude, whether of body or soul — cleared his bills ilka Saturday 
at e’en, as regularly as Saturday came round.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


136 

“ An admirable customer no doubt, Mrs. Dods,” said the- 
lawyer. 

“ Never was the like of him for that matter,” answered the 
honest dame. But to see the malice of men ! — Some of thae 
landloupers and gill-flirts doun at the fithy puddle yonder, that 
they ca’ the Waal, had heard of this puir lad, and the bits of 
pictures that he made fashion of drawing, and they maun cuitle 
him awa doun to the hottle, where mony a bonny story they had 
decked, Mr. Bindloose, baith of Mr. Tirl and of mysell.” 

“ A Commissary Court business,” said the waiter, going off 
again upon a false scent. “ I shall trim their jackets for them, 
Mrs. Dods, if you can but bring tight evidence of the facts — I 
will soon bring them to fine and palinode — I will make them 
repent meddling with your good name.” 

My gude name ! What the sorrow is the matter wi’ my 
name, Mr. Bindloose ? ” said the irritable client. “ I think ye 
hae been at the wee cappie this morning, for as early as it is — 
My gude name ! — if onybody touched my gude name, I would 
neither fash council nor commissary — I wad be down amang 
them like a jer-falcon amang a wheen wild geese, and the best 
amang them that dared to say onything of Meg Dods but what 
was honest and civil, I wad sune see if her cockernonnie was 
made of her ain hair or other folk’s. My gude name, indeed ! ” 

“ Weel, weel, Mrs. Dods, I was mista’en, that’s a’,” said the 
writer, “ I was mista’en ; and I dare to say you would baud 
your ain wi’ your neighbors as weel as ony woman in the land 
— But let us hear now what the grief is — in one word.” 

“ In one word, then. Clerk Bindloose, it is little short of — 
murder,” said Meg in a low tone, as if the very utterance of the 
word startled her. 

“ Murder ! murder, Mrs. Dods ? — it cannot be — there is not 
a word of it in the Sheriff-office — the Procurator-Fiscal kens 
nothing of it — there could not be murder in the country, and 
me not hear of it — for God’s sake, take heed what you say, 
woman, and dinna get yourself into trouble.” 

“ Mr. Bindloose I can but speak according to my lights,” 
said Mrs. Dods ; “ you are in a sense a judge in Israel, at least 
you are one of the scribes having authority— and I tell you w ith 
a wae and bitter heart, that this puir callant of mine that w^as 
lodging in my house has been murdered or kidnapped awa 
amang thae banditti folk down at the New Waal ; and I’ll hae 
the law put in force against them, if it should cost me a 
hundred pounds.” 

The Clerk stood much astonished at the nature of Meg’s 


ST. ROJVAN'S WELL. 


137 

accusation, and the pertinacity with which she seemed disposed 
to insist upon it. 

“ I have this comfort,” she continued, “ that whatever has 
happened, it has been by no fault of mine, Mr. Bindloose ; for 
weel I wot, before that bloodthirsty auld half-pay Philistine, 
MacTurk, got to speech of him, I clawed his cantle to some pur- 
pose with my hearth-besom. — But the poor simple bairn himsell, 
that had nae mair knowledge of the wickedness of human nature 
than a calf has of a fiesher’s gull}^, he threepit to see the auld 
hardened bloodshedder, and trysted wi’ him to meet wi’ some 
of the gang at an hour certain the neist day, and awa he gaed 
to keep tryst, but since that hour naebody ever has set een on 
him. — And the mansworn villains now want to put a disgrace on 
him, and say that he fled the country rather than face them ! — 
a likely story — fled the country for them ! — and leave his bill 
unsettled — him that was sae regular — and his portmantle and 
his fishing-rod, and the pencils and pictures he held sic a wark 
about ! — It’s my faithful belief, Mr. Bindloose — and ye may 
trust me or no as ye like — that he had some foul play between 
the Cleikum and the Buck-stane. I have thought it,and I have 
dreamed it, and I will be at the bottom of it, or my name is not 
Meg Dods, and that I wad have them a’ to reckon on. — Ay, ay, 
that’s right, Mr. Bindloose, tak out your pen and inkhorn, and 
let us set about it to purpose.” 

With considerable difficulty, and at the expense of much cross- 
examination, Mr. Bindloose extracted from his client a detailed 
account of the proceedings of the company at the Well toward 
Tyrrel, so far as they were known to or suspected by Meg, mak- 
ing notes, as the examination proceeded, of what appeared to be 
matter of consequence. After a moment’s consideration, he 
asked the dame the very natural question, how she came to be 
acquainted with the material fact, that a hostile appointment 
was made between Captain MacTurk and her lodger, when, 
according to her own account, it was made intra parietes^ and 
remotis testibus? 

“ Ay, but we victualers ken weel eneugh what goes on in our 
ain houses,” said Meg — “ And what for no } — If ye mauti ken a’ 
about it, I e’en listened through the key-hole of the door.” 

“ And do you say you heard them settle an appointmenr for 
a duel ? ” said the Clerk ; “ and did you no take ony measures 
to hinder mischief, Mrs. Dods, having such a respect for this 
lad as you say you have, Mrs. Dods ? — I really wadna have 
looked for the like o’ this at your hands.” 

“ In truth, Mr. Bindloose,” said Meg, putting her apron to 
her eyes, “ and that’s what vexes me mair than a’ the rest, and 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


138 

ye needna say muckle to one whose heart is e’en the sairer that 
.she has been a thought to blame. But there has been mony a 
challenge, as they ca’ it, passed in my house when thae daft 
lads of the Wildfire Club and the Helterskelter were upon their 
rambles ; and they had aye sense enough to make it up with- 
out fighting, sae that I really did not apprehend onything like 
mischief. — And ye maun think, moreover, Mr. Bindloose, that 
it would have been an unco thing if a guest, in a decent and 
creditable public like mine, was to have cried coward before 
ony of thae land-louping blackguards that live down at the hottle 
yonder.” 

“That is to say, Mrs. Dods, you were desirous your guest 
should fight for the honor of your house,” said Bindloose. 

“ What for no, Mr. Bindloose } — Isna that kind of fray aye 
about honor ? and what for should the honor of a substantial 
four-nooked sclated house of three stories no be foughten for, 
as weel as the credit of ony of these feckless callants that make 
such a fray about their reputation ? — I promise you my house, 
the Cleikum, stood in the Auld Town of St. Ronan’s before they 
were born, and it will stand there after they are hanged, as I 
trust some of them are like to be.” 

“ Well, but perhaps your lodger had less zeal for the honor 
of the house, and has quietly taken himself out of harm’s way,” 
said Mr. Bindloose ; “ for, if I understand your story, this meet- 
ing never took place.” - 

“ Have less zeal ! ” said Meg, determined to be pleased with 
no supposition of her lawyer, “ Mr. Bindloose, ye little ken him 
— I wish ye had seen him when he was angry ! — I dared hardly 
face him mysell, and there are no mony folk that I am feared 
for — Meeting ! there was nae meeting, I trow — they never dared 
to meet him fairly — but I am sure waur came of it than ever 
would have come of a meeting; for Anthony heard twa shots 
gang off as he was watering the auld naig down at the burn, and 
that is not far frae the footpath that leads to the Buck-stane. 
I was angry at him for no making on to see what the matter 
was, but he thought it was auld Timer out wi’ the double barrel, 
and he wasna keen of makirg himself a witness, in case he suld 
have been caa’d on in the Poaching Court.” 

“ Well,” said the Sheriff-clerk, “ and I dare say he did hear 
a poacher fire a couple of shots — nothing more likely. Believe 
me, Mrs. Dods, your guest had no fancy for the party Captain 
MacTurk invited him to — and being a quiet sort of man, he has 
just walked away to his own home, if he has one — I am really 
sorry you have given yourself the trouble of this long journey 
about so simple a matter.” 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


139 


Mrs. Dods remained with her eyes fixed on the ground in a 
very sullen and discontented posture, and when she spoke, it 
was in a tone of corresponding displeasure. 

“ Aweel — aweel — live and learn, they say — I thought I had 
a friend in you, Mr. Bindloose — I am sure I aye took your part 
when folks miscaa’d ye, and said ye were this, that, and the 
other thing, and little better than an auld sneck-drawing loon, 
Mr. Bindloose. — And ye have ay keepit my penny of money, 
though, nae doubt, Tam Turnpenny lives nearer me, and they 
say he allows half a per cent mair than ye do if the siller lies, 
and mine is but seldom steered.” 

“ But ye have not the Bank’s security, madam,” said Mr. 
Bindloose, reddening. 1 say harm of nae man’s credit — ill 
would it beseem me — but there is a difference between Tam 
Turpenny and the Bank I trow.” 

“ Weel, weel. Bank here Bank there, I thought I had a friend 
in you, Mr. Bindloose ; and here am I, come from my ain house 
all the way to yours, for sma comfort, I think.” 

“ My stars, madam,” said the perplexed scribe, “what would 
you have me to do in such a blind story as yours, Mrs. Dods ? — ■ 
Be a thought reasonable — consider that there is no Corpus 
delicti.^’’ 

“ Corpus delicti ! and what’s that ? ” said Meg; “ something 
to be paid for, nae doubt, for your hard words a’ end in that. 

• — And what for suld I no have a Corpus delicti, or a Habeas 
Corpus, or any other Corpus that 1 like, sae lang as I am will- 
ing to lick and lay down the ready siller ? ” 

“Lord help and pardon us, Mrs. Dods,” said the distressed 
agent, “ ye mistake the matter a’ thegither ! When I say there 
is no Corpus delicti, I mean to say there is no proof that a 
crime has been committed.” * 

“ And does the man say that murder is not a crime, then } ” 
answered Meg, who had taken her own view of the subject far 
too strongly to be converted to any other — “ Weel I wot it’s a 
crime, baith by the law of God and man, and mony a pretty man 
has been strapped for it.” 

“ I ken all that very weel,” answered the writer ; “ but, my 
stars, Mrs. Dods, there is nae evidence of murder in this case — 
nae proof that a man has been slain — ^nae production of his 
dead body — and that is w'hat we call the Corpus delicti.” 

“ Weel than, the deil lick it out of ye,” said Meg, rising in 
wrath, “ for I will awa hame again ; and as for the puir lad’s 

* For example, a man cannot be tried for murder merely in the case of 
the non-appearance of an individual ; there must be proof that the party 
has been murdered. 


140 


ST. RONAN\S WELL. 


body, ril hae it fund, if it cost me turning the earth for three 
miles round wi’ pick and shool — if it were but to give the puir 
bairn Christian burial, and to bring punishment on MacTurk 
and the murdering crew at the Waal, and to shame an auld 
doited fule like yoursell, John Bindloose.” 

She rose in wrath to call her vehicle ; but it was neither the 
interest nor the intention of the writer that his customer and 
he should part on such indifferent terms. He implored her 
patience, and reminded her that the horses, poor things, had 
just come off their stage — an argument which sounded irresist- 
ible in the ears of the old she-publican, in whose early education 
due care of the post-cattle mingled with the most sacred duties. 
She therefore resumed her seat again in a sullen mood, and 
Mr. Bindloose was cudgeling his brains for some, argument 
which might bring the old lady to reason, when his attention 
was drawn by a noise in the passage. 


CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 

A PRAISER OF PAST TIMES. 

Now your traveler, 

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess. 

King John. 

The noise stated at the conclusion of last chapter to have 
disturbed Mr. Bindloose, was the rapping of one, as in haste and 
impatience, at the Bank-office door, which office was an apart- 
ment of the Banker’s house, on the left hand of his passage, as 
the parlor in which he had received Mrs. Dods was upon the 
right. 

In general, this office was patent to all having business 
there ; but at present, whatever might be th^ hurry of the 
party who knocked, the clerks within the office could not admit 
him, being themselves made prisoners by the prudent jealousy 
of Mr. Bindloose, to pi;event them from listening to his consul- 
tation with Mrs. Dods. They therefore answered the angry 
and impatient knocking of the stranger only with stifled giggling 
from within, finding it no doubt an excellent joke, that their 
master’s precaution was thus interfering with their own dis- 
charge of duty. 

With one or two hearty curses upon them, as the regular 


ST. ROMAN'S WELL. 


41 


plagues of his life, Mr. Bindloose darted into the passage, and 
admitted the stranger into his official apartment. The doors 
both of the parlor and office remaining open, the ears of Luckie 
Dods (experienced, as the reader knows, in collecting intelli- 
gence) could partly overhear what passed. The conversation 
seemed to regard a cash transaction of some importance, as 
Meg became aware when the stranger raised a voice which was 
naturally sharp and high, as he did when uttering the following 
words, toward the close of a conversation which had lasted 
about five minutes — “ Premium ? — Not a pice, sir — not a courie 
— not a farthing — premium for a Bank of England bill ? d’ye 
take me for a fool, sir — do not I know that you call forty days 
par when you give remittances to London ? ” 

Mr. Bindloose was here heard to mutter something indis- 
tinctly about the custom of the trade. 

“ Custom ! ” retorted the stranger, “ no such thing — damn’d 
bad custom, if it is one — don’t tell me of customs — ‘ Sbodikins, 
man, I know the rate of exchange all over the world, and have 
drawn bills from Timbuctoo — My friends in the Strand filed it 
along with Bruce’s from Gondar — talk to me of premium on a 
Bank of England post-bill ! — What d’ye look at the bill for ? — 
D’ye think it doubtful ? — I can change it.” 

“ By no means necessary,” answered Bindloose, “ the bill is 
quite right ; but it is usual to indorse, sir.” 

“ Certainly — reach me a pen — d’ye think I can write with 
my ratan ? — What sort of ink is this i* — yellow as curry sauce — 
never mind — there is my name — Peregrine Touchwood — I got 
it from the Willoughbies, my Christian name — Have I my full 
change here ? ” 

“ Your full change, sir,” answered Bindloose. 

“ Why, you should give me a premium, friend, instead of me 
giving you one.” 

“ It is out of our way, I assure you, sir,” said the banker, 
“ quite out of our* way — but if you would step into the parlor 
and take a cup of tea ” 

“ Why, ay,” said the stranger, his voice sounding more dis- 
tinctly as (talking all the while, and ushered along by Mr. 
Bindloose) he left the office and moved toward the parlor 
“a cup of tea were no such bad thing, if one could come by it 

genuine — but as for your premium ” So saying, he entered 

the parlor and made his bow to Mrs. Dods, who, seeing what 
she called a decent purpose-like body, and aware that his pocket 
was replenished with English and Scottish paper currency, 
returned the compliment with her best courtesy. 

Mr. Touchwood, when surveyed more at leisure, was a short, 


142 


ST. TONAN^S WELL, 


Stout, active man, who, though sixty years of age and upward, 
retained in his sinews and frame the elasticity of an earlier 
period. His countenance expressed self-confidence, and some- 
thing like a contempt for those who had neither seen noi 
endured so much as he had himself. His short black hair was 
mingled with gray, but not entirely whitened by it. His eyes 
were jet black, deep-set, small, and sparkling, and contributed, 
with a short turned-up nose, to express an irritable and choleric 
habit. His complexion was burnt to a brick-color by the 
vicissitudes of climate, to which it had been subjected ; and 
his face, which, at the distance of a* yard or two, seemed hale 
and smooth, appeared, when closely examined, to be seamed 
with a million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every direction 
possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point^of a very small 
needle.* His dress was a blue coat and buff waistcoat, half- 
boots remarkably well blacked, and a silk handkerchief tied with 
military precision. The only antiquated part of his dress was a 
cocked hat of equilateral dimensions, in the button-hole of which 
he wore a very small cockade. Mrs, Dods, accustomed to judge 
of persons by their first appearance, said, that in the three steps 
which he made from the d.oor to the tea-table, she recognized, 
without the possibility of mistake, the gait of a person who was 
well to pass in the world ; “ and that,” she added, with a wink, 
“is what we victuallers are seldom deceiv^ed in. If a gold-laced 
waistcoat has an empty pouch, the plain swan’s down will be 
the brawer of the twa.” 

“ A drizzling morning, good madam,” said Mr. Touchwood, 
with a view of sounding what sort of company he had got 
into. 

“ A fine saft morning for the crap, sir,” answered Mrs. Dods 
with equal solemnity. 

“ Right, my good madam ; soft is the very word, though 
it has been some time since I heard it. I have cast a double 
hank about the round world since I last heard of a soft t 
morning.” 

“You will be from these parts, then.?” said the writer, 
ingeniously putting a case, which, he hoped, would induce the 
stranger to explain himself. “ And yet, sir,” he added, after a 
pause, “ I was thinking that Touchwood is not a Scottish name, 
at least that I ken of.” 

“ Scottish name ? — no,” replied the traveler ; “ but a man 

* This was a peculiarity in the countenance of the celebrated Cossack 
leader Platoff. 

t An eoithet which expresses, in Scotland, what the barometer calls 
rainy. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


H3 

may have been in these parts before, without being a native— 
or, being a native, he may have had some reason to change 
his name — there are many reasons why men change their 
names.” 

“ Certainly, and some of them very good ones,” said the 
lawyer; “as in the common case of an heir of entail, where 
deed of provision and tailzie is maist ordinarily implemented by 
taking up name and arms.” 

“ Ay, or in the case of a man having made the country 
too hot for him under his own proper appellative,” said Mr. 
Touchwood. 

“ That is a supposition, sir,” replied the lawyer, “ which it 
would ill become me to put. — But at any rate, if you knew this 
country formerly, ye cannot but be marvelously pleased with 
the change we have been making since the American war, — 
hill-sides bearing clover instead of heather, — rents doubled, 
trebled, quadrupled, — the auld reekie dungeons pulled down, 
and gentlemen living in as good houses as you will see any- 
where in England.” 

“ Much good may it do them, for a pack of fools ! ” replied 
Mr. Touchwood, hastily. 

“ You do not seem much delighted with our improvements, 
sir,” said the banker, astonished to hear a dissentient voice 
where he conceived all men unanimous. 

“ Pleased 1 ” answered the stranger — “ Yes, as much pleased 
as I am with the devil, who, I believe, set many of them 
agoing. Ye have got an idea that everything must be changed 
— Unstable as water, ye shall not excel — I tell ye, there have 
been more changes in this poor nook of yours within the last 
forty years, than in the great empires of the East for the space 
of four thousand, for what I know.” 

“ And why not,” replied Bindloose, “ if they be changes for 
the better ? ” 

“ But they are not for the better,” replied Mr, Touchwood, 
eagerly. “ I left yoitr peasantry as poor as rats indeed, but 
honest and industrious, enduring their lot in this world with 
firmness, and looking forward to the next with hope — Now they 
are mere eye-servants — looking at their watches, forsooth, every 
ten minutes, lest they should work for their master half-an- 
instant after loosing-time — And then, instead of studying the 
Bible on the work days, to kittle the clergyman with doubtful 
points of controversy on the Sabbath, they glean all their theol- 
ogy from Tom Paine and Voltaire.” 

“ Weel I wot the gentleman speaks truth,”, said Mrs. Dods. 
“ I fand a bundle of their bawbee blasphemies in my ain 


144 


ST. ROJVAN^S WELL. 


kitchen — But I trow I made a clean house of the packman 
loon that brought them ! — No content wi’ turning the tawpies’ 
heads wi’ ballants, and driving them daft wi’ ribbons, to cheat 
them out of their precious souls, and gie them the deevil’s ware, 
that I suld say sae, in exchange for the siller that suld support 
their puir father that’s aff wark and bedridden ! ” 

“ Father ! madam,” said the stranger ; “they think no more 
of their father than Regan or Goneril.” 

“ In glide troth, ye have skeel of our sect, sir,” replied the 
dame ; “they are gomerils, every one of them — I tell them sae 
every hour of the day, but catch them profiting by the doctrine.” 

“ And then the brutes are turned mercenary, madam,” said 
Mr. Touchwood. “ I remember w'hen a Scotchman would have 
scorned to touch a shilling that he had not earned, and yet 
was as ready to help a stranger as an Arab of the desert. And 
now I did but drop my cane the other day as I was riding — a 
fellow who was working at the hedge made three steps to lift it 
— I thanked him, and my friend threw his hat on his head, and 
‘ damned my thanks, if that were all ’ — Saint Giles could not 
have excelled him.” 

“Weel, weel,” said the banker, “that may be a’ as you say, 
sir, and nae doubt wealth makes wit waver, but the country’s 
wealthy, that cannot be denied, and wealth, sir, ye ken ” 

“ I know wealth makes itself wings,” answered the cynical 
stranger ; “ but I am not quite sure we have it even now. 
You make a great show, indeed, with building and cultivation; 
but stock is not capital, any more than the fat of a corpulent 
man is health or strength.” 

“ Surely, Mr. Touchwood,” said Bindloose, who felt his own 
account in the modern improvements, “a set of landlords, 
living like lairds in good earnest, and tenants with better 
housekeeping than the lairds used to have, and facing Whit- 
sunday and Martinmas as I would face my breakfast — if these 
are not signs of wealth, I do not know where to seek for 
them.” 

“ They are signs of folly, sir,” replied Touchwood ; “folly 
that is poor, and renders itself poorer by desiring to be thought 
rich ; and how they come by the means they are so ostenta- 
tious of, you, who are a banker, perhaps can tell me better than 
I can guess.” 

“ There is maybe an accommodation-bill discounted now 
and then, Mr. Touchwood ; but men must have accommoda- 
tion, or the world* would stand still — accommodation is the 
grease that makes the wheels go.” 

“Ay, makes them go down hill to the devil,” answered 


ST. ROA^'AN^S WELL. 


145 

Touchwood. “ I left you bothered about one Air bank, but 
the whole country is an Air bank now, I think — And who is 
to pay the piper ? — But it is all one — I will see little more of 
it — it is a perfect Babel, and would turn the head of a man 
who has spent his life with people who love sitting better than 
running, silence better than speaking, who never eat but when 
they are hungry, never drink but when thirsty, never laugh 
without a jest, and never speak but when they have something 
to say. But here, it is all run, ride, and drive — froth, foam 
and flippancy — no steadiness — no character.” 

“ I’ll lay the burden of my life,” said Dame Dods, looking 
toward her friend Bindloose, “ that the gentleman has been at 
the new Spaw-Waal yonder.” 

“ Spaw do you call it, madam ? — If you mean the new estab- 
lishment that has been spawned down yonder at St. Ronan’s, 
it is the very fountain-head of folly and coxcombry — a Babel 
for noise and a Vanity-fair for nonsense — no well in your swamps 
tenanted by such a conceited colony of clamorous frogs.” 

“ Sir, sir ! ” exclaimed Dame Dods, delighted with the un- 
qualified sentence passed upon her fashionable rivals, and eager 
to testify her respect for the judicious stranger who had pro' 
nounced it, — “ will yotf let me have the pleasure of pouring 
you out a dish of tea 'i ” And so saying, she took bustling pos- 
session of the administration which had hitherto remained in 
the hands of Mr. Bindloose himself. “ I hope it is to your 
taste, sir,” she continued, when the traveler had accepted her 
courtesy with the grateful acknowledgment which men addicted 
to speak a great deal usually show to a willing auditor. 

“ It is as good as we have any right to expect, ma’am,” 
answered Mr. Touchwood ; “ not quite like what I have drunk 
at Canton with old Fong Qua ; but the Celestial Empire does 
not send its best tea to Leadenhall Street, nor does Leadenhall 
Street send its best to Marchthorn.” 

“ That may be very true, sir,” replied the dame ; “ but I will 
venture to say that Mr. Bindloose’s tea is muckle better than 
you had at the Spaw-Waal yonder.” 

“ Tea, madam ! — I saw none — Ash leaves and black-thorn 
leaves were brought in in painted canisters and handed about 
by powder-monkeys in livery, and consumed by those who liked 
it, amidst the chattering of parrots and the squalling of kittens. 
I longed for the days of the Spectator, when I might have laid 
my penny on the bar, and retired without ceremony — But no — 
this blessed decoction was circulated under the auspices of some 
half-crazed blue-stocking or other, and we were saddled with all 


146 


ST. RON-AA-'S WELL. 


the formality of an entertainment, for this miserable allowance 
of a cockle-shell full of cat-lap per head.” 

“ Weel, sir,” answered Dame Dods, “ all I can say is, that if 
it had been my luck to have served you at the Cleikum Inn, 
which our folks have kept for these twa generations, I canna 
pretend to say ye should have had such tea as ye have been 
used to in foreign parts where it grows, but the best I had I 
wad have gi’en it to a gentleman of your appearance, and I never 
charged mair than sixpence in all my time, and my father’s 
before me.” 

“ I wish I had known the Old Inn was still standing, madam,” 
said the traveler ; “ I should certainly have been your guest, 
and sent down for the water every morning — the doctors insist- 
I must use Cheltenham, or some substitute, for the bile — though, 
d — n them, I believe it’s only to hide their own ignorance. And 
I thought this Spaw would have been the least evil of the two ; 
but I have been fairly overreached — one might as well live in 
the inside of a bell. I think young St. Ronan’s must be mad, 
to have established such a Vanity-fair upon his father’s old 
property.” 

“ Do you ken this St, Ronan’s that now is ? ” inquired the 
Dame. 

“ By report only,” said Mr. Touchwood ; ‘‘ but I have heard 
of the family, and I think I have read of them, too, in Scottish 
history. I am sorry to understand they are lower in the world 
than they have been. This young man does not seem to take 
the best way to mend matters, spending his time among gam- 
blers and black-legs.” 

“ I should be sorry if it were so,” said honest Meg Dods, 
whose hereditary respect for the family always kept her from 
joining in any scandal affecting the character of the young laird 
— “ My forbears, sir, have had kindness frae his ; and although 
maybe he may have forgotten all about it, it wad ill become me 
to say onything of him that should not be said of his father’s 
son.” 

Mr. Bindloose had not the same motive for forbearance ; he 
declaimed against Mowbray as a thoughtless dissipater of his 
own fortune, and that of others. “ I have some reason to speak,” 
he said, “having two of his notes for ;^ioo each, which I dis- 
counted out of mere kindness and respect for his ancient family, 
and which he thinks nae mair of retiring, than he does of paying 
the national debt — And here has he been raking every shop in 
Marchthorn, to fit out an entertainment for all the fine folk at 
the Well yonder ; and tradesfolk are obliged to take his accept- 
ances for their furnishings. But they may cash his bills that 


ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


147 


will ; I ken ane that will never advance a bawbee on ony paper 
that has John Mowbray either on the back or front of it. He 
had mair need to be paying the debts which he has made 
already, than making new anes, that he may feed fules and 
flatterers.” 

“ I believe he is likely to lose his preparations, too,” said Mr. 
Touchwood, “ for the entertainment has been put off, as I heard, 
in consequence of Miss Mowbray’s illness.” 

“ Ay, ay, puir thing ! ” said Dame Margaret Dods ; her health 
has been unsettled for this mony a dav/’ 

“ Something wrong here, they tell me,” said the traveler, 
pointing to his own forehead significantly. 

“ God only kens,” replied Mrs. Dods ; “ but I rather suspect 
the heart than the head — the puir thing is hurried here and 
there, and down to the Waal, and up again, and nae society or 
quiet at hame ; and a’ thing ganging this unthrifty gate — nae 
wonder she is no that weel settled.” 

“ Well,” replied Touchwood,” she is worse they say than she 
has been, and that has occasioned the party at Shaws Castle 
having been put off. Besides, now this fine young lord has come 
down to the Well, they will undoubtedly wait her recovery.” 

“ A lord ! ” ejaculated the astonished Mrs. Dods ; “ a lord 
come down to the Waal — they will be neither to hand nor to 
bind now — ance wud and aye w^aur — a lord ! — set them up and 
shute them forward — a lord I — the Lord have a care o’ us ! — 
a lord at the hottle — Maister Touchwood, it’s my mind he 
will only prove to be a Lord o’ Session.” 

Nay, not so, my good lady,” replied the traveler, “he is 
an English lord, and, as they say, a Lord of Parliament — but 
some folk pretend to say that there is a flaw in the title.” 

“ I’ll warrant is there — a dozen of them ! ” said Meg, with 
alacrity — for she could by no means endure to think on the 
accumulation of dignity likely to accrue to the rival establish- 
ment, from its becoming the residence of an actual nobleman. 
“ I’ll warrant he’ll prove a landlouping lord on their hand, and 
they will be e’en cheap o’ the loss — And he has come down out 
of order it’s like, and nae doubt he’ll no be lang there before he 
will recover his health, for the credit of the Spaw.” 

“ Faith, madam, his present disorder is one which the Spaw 
will hardly cure — he is shot in the shoulder with a pistol-bullet 
— a robbery attempted, it seems — that is one of youi new accom- 
plishments — no such thing happened in Scotland in my time — 
men would have sooner expected to meet with the phoenix than 
with a highwayman.” 


148 


ST, RONAl\r'S WELL. 


“ And where did this happen, if you please, sir ? ” asked the 
man of bills. 

“ Somewhere near the old village,” replied the stranger ; ” 
and, if I am rightly informed, on Wednesday last.” 

“ This explains your twa shots, I am thinking, Mrs. Dods,” 
said Mr.Bindloose ; “ your groom heard them on the Wednesday 
— it must have been this attack on the stranger nobleman.” 

“ Maybe it was, and maybe it was not,” said Mrs. Dods ; 
“ but I’ll see gude reason before I give up my ain judgment in 
that case, I wad like fo ken if this gentleman,” she added, 
returning to the subject from which Mr. Touchwood’s interest- 
ing conversation had for a few minutes diverted her thoughts, 
“has heard aught of Mr. Tirl ? ” 

“ If you mean the person to whom this paper relates,” said 
the stranger, taking a printed handbill from his pocket, “ I 
heard of little else — the whole place rang of him, till I was 
almost as sick of Tyrrel as William Rufus was. Some idiotical 
quarrel which he had engaged in, and which he had not fought 
out, as their wisdom thought he should have done, was the prin- 
cipal cause of censure. That is another, folly now, which has 
gained ground among you. Formerly, two old proud lairds, or 
cadets of good family, perhaps quarreled, and had a rencontre, 
or fought a duel after the fashion of their old Gothic ancestors ; 
but men who had no grandfathers never dreamt of such folly 
— And here the folk denounce a trumpery dauber of canvas, for 
such I understand to be this hero’s occupation, as if he were a 
field-officer, who made valor his profession ; and who, if you de- 
prived him of his honor, was like to be deprived of his bread 
at the same time. — Ha, ha, ha ! it reminds one of Don Quixote, 
who took his neighbor, Samson Carrasco, for a knight-errant.” 

The perusal of this paper, which contained the notes formerly 
laid before the reader containing the statement of Sir Bingo, 
and the censure which the company at the Well had thought fit 
to pass upon his affair with Mr. Tyrrel, induced Mr. Bindloose 
to say to Mrs. Dods, with as little exultation on the superiority 
of his own judgment as human nature would permit, — 

“ Ye see now that I was right, Mrs. Dods, and that there 
was nae earthly use in your fashing yoursell wi’ this lang journey 
— The lad has just ta’en the bent, rather than face Sir Bingo ; 
and troth, I think him the wiser of the twa for sae doing — 
There ye hae print for it.” 

Meg answered somewhat sullenly, “ Ye may be mistaken, 
for a* that, your ainsell, for as wise as ye are, Mr. Bindloose ; I 
shall hae that matter mair strictly inquired into.” 

This led to a renewal of the altercation concerning the prob- 


Sr. RONAN^S WELL. 


149 

able fate of Tyrrel, in the course of which the stranger was 
induced to take some interest in the subject. 

At length Mrs. Dods, receiving no countenance from the 
experienced lawyer for the hypothesis she had formed, rose, in 
something like displeasure, to order her whiskey to be prepared. 
But hostess as she was herself, when in her own dominions, she 
reckoned without her host in the present instance ; for the 
hump backed ])ostilion, as absolute in his department as Mrs. 
Dods herself, declared that the cattle would not be fit for the 
road these two hours yet. The good lady was therefore obliged 
to await his pleasure, bitterly lamenting all the while the loss 
which a house of public entertainment was sure to sustain by 
the absence of the landlord or landlady, and anticipating a 
long list of broken dishes, miscalculated reckonings, iinarranged 
chambers, and other disasters, which she was to expect at her 
return. Mr. Bindloose, zealous to recover the regard of his 
good friend and client, which he had in some degree forfeited 
by contradicting her on a favorite subject, did not choose to 
offer the unpleasing, though obvious topic of consolation, that 
an unfrequented inn is little exposed to the accidents she appre- 
hended. On the contrary, he condoled with her very cordially, 
and went so far as to hint, that if Mr. Touchwood had come to 
Marchthorn with post-horses, as he supposed from his dress, 
she could have the advantage of them to return with more 
despatch to St. Ronan’s. 

“ I am not sure,” said Mr. Touchwood, suddenly, “but I may 
return there myself. In that case I will be glad to set this 
good lady down, and to stay a few days at her house, if she will 
receive me. — I respect a woman like you, ma’am, who pursues 
the occupation of your father — I have been in countries, ma’am, 
where people have followed the same trade, from father to son, 
for thousands of years — And I like the fashion — it shows a 
steadiness and sobriety of character.” 

Mrs. Dods put on a joyous countenance at this proposal, pro- 
testing that all should be done in her power to make things 
agreeable ; and while her good friend, Mr. Bindloose, expatiated 
upon the comfort her new guest would experience at the Cleikum, 
she silently contemplated with delight the prospect of a speedy 
and dazzling triumph, by carrying off a creditable customer from 
her showy and successful rival at the Well. 

“ I shall be easily accommodated, ma’am,” said the stranger ; 
“ I have traveled too much and too far to be troublesome. A 
Spanish venta, a Persian khan, or a Turkish caravanserai, is 
all the same to me — only, as I have no servant — indeed, never 
can be plagued with one of these idle loiterers — I must beg 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


*50 

you will send to the Well for a bottle of the water on such 
mornings as I cannot walk there myself — I find it is really of 
some service to me.” 

Mrs. Dods readily promised compliance with this reasonable 
request ; graciously conceding, that there “ could be nae ill in 
the water itsell but maybe some glide — it was only the New 
Inn, and the daft havrels that they caa’d ^he Company, that she 
misliked. Folk had a jest that St, Ronan dookit the Deevi] 
in the Waal, which garr’d it taste aye since of brimstone — but 
she dared to say that was a’ Papist nonsense, for she was tell’t 
by him that kend weel, and that was the min’ster himsell, that 
St. Ronan was nane of your idolatrous Roman saunts, but a 
Chaldee” (meaning probably a Culdee), “ whilk was doubtless 
a very different story.” 

Matters being thus arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, 
the post-chaise was ordered, and speedily appeared at the door of 
Mr. Bindloose’s mansion. It was not without a private feeling 
of reluctance, that honest Meg mounted the step of a vehicle, 
on the door of which was painted, “ Fox Inn and Hotel, St. 
Ronan’s Well ; but it was too late to start such scruples. 

“ I never thought to have entered ane o’ their hurley-hackets,” 
she said, as she seated herself ; “ and sic a like thing as it is — • 
scarce room for twa folk ! — Weel I wot, Mr. Touchwood, when 
I was in the hiring line, our twa chaises wad hae carried, ilk 
ane o’ them, four grown folk and as mony bairns. I trust that 
doited creature Anthony will come awa back wi’ my whiskey 
and the cattle, as soon as they have had their feed. — x\re ye 
sure ye hae room aneugh, sir.? — I wad fain hotch mysell fur- 
ther yont. 

“ Oh, ma’am,” answered the Oriental, “ I am accustomed 
to all sorts of conveyances — a dooly, a litter, a cart, a palan- 
quin, or a post-chaise, are all alike to me — I think I could be 
an inside with Queen Mab in a nutshell, rather than not get 
forward.— Begging you many pardons, if you have no particular 
objections, I will light my sheroot,” etc. etc. etc. 


ST, ROMANES WELT 


151 


CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 

THE CLERGYMAN. 


A man he was to all the country clear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a-year. 

Goldsmith’s Deserted Village. 

Mrs. Dods’s conviction, that her friend Tyrrel had been 
murdered by the sanguinary Captain MacTurk, remained firm 
and unshaken ; but some researches for the supposed body 
having been found fruitless, as well as expensive, she began to 
give up the matter in despair. “ She had done her duty ’’ — 
“she left the matter to them that had a charge anent such 
things ” — and “ Providence would bring the mystery to light in 
his own fitting time ” — such were the moralities with which the 
good dame consoled herself ; and, with less obstinacy than Mr. 
Bindloose had expected, she retained her opinion without 
changing her banker and man of business. 

Perhaps Meg’s acquiescent inactivity in a matter which she 
had threatened to probe so deeply, was partly owing to the 
place of poor Tyrrel being supplied in her blue chamber, and 
in her daily thoughts and cares, by her new guest, Mr. Touch- 
wood ; in possessing whom, a deserter as he was from the 
Well, she obtained, according to her view of the matter, a de- 
cided triumph over her rivals. It sometimes required, how- 
ever, the full force of this reflection, to induce Meg, old and 
crabbed as she was, to submit to the various caprices and ex- 
actions of attention which were displayed by her new lodger. 
Never any man talked so much as Touchwood of his habitual 
indifference to food and accommodation in traveling ; and 
probably there never was any traveler who gave more trouble 
in a house of entertainment. He had his own whims about 
cookery ; and when these were contradicted, especially if he 
felt at Ihe same time a twinge of incipient gout, one would 
have thought he had taken his lessons in the pastry shop of 
Bedreddin Hassan, and was ready to renew the scene of the 
unhappy cream-tart, which was compounded Avithout pepper. 
Every now and then he started some new doctrine in culinary 
matters, which Mrs. Dods deemed a heresy ; and then the 
very house rang with their disputes. Again, his bed must 
necessarily be made at a certain angle from the pillow to the 


ST, RO.VAN\S WELL. 


152 

foot-posts ; and the slightest deviation from this disturbed, he 
said, his nocturnal rest, and did certainly ruffle his temper. He 
was equally whimsical about the brushing of his clothes, the 
arrangement of the furniture in his apartment, and a thousand 
minutiae, which, in conversation, he seemed totally to contemn. 

It may seem singular, but such is the inconsistency of 
human nature, that a guest of this fanciful and capricious dis- 
position gave much more satisfaction to Mrs. Docis than her 
quiet and indifferent friend Mr. Tyrrel. If her present lodgei 
could blame, he could also applaud ; and no artist, conscious 
of such skill as Mrs. Dods possessed, is indifferent to the 
praises of such a connoisseur as Mr. Touchwood. The pride 
of art comforted her for the additional labor ; nor was it a 
matter unworthy of this most honest publican’s consideration, 
tfiat the guests who give most trouble are usually those who 
incur the largest bills, and pay them with the best grace. On 
this point Touchwood was a jewel of a customer. He never 
denied himself the gratification of the slightest whim, whatever 
expense he might himself incur, or whatever trouble he might 
give to those about him ; and all was done under protestation 
that the matter in question was the most indifferent thing to 
him in the world. “ What the devil did he care for Burgess’s 
sauces, he that had eat his kouscousou, spiced with nothing 
but the sand of the desert 1 only it was a shame for Mrs. Dods 
to be without what every decent house, above the rank of an 
alehouse, ought to be largely provided with.” 

In short, he fussed, fretted, commanded, and was obeyed; 
kept the house in hot water, and yet was so truly good-natured 
when essential matters were in discussion, that it was impos- 
sible to bear him the least ill-will ; so that Mrs. Dods, though 
in a moment of spleen she sometimes wished him at the top 
of Tintock, always ended by singing forth his praises. She 
could not, indeed, help suspecting that he was a Nabob, as 
well from his conversation about foreign parts as from his 
freaks of indulgence to himself, and generosity to others— 
attributes which she understood to be proper to most “ Men of 
Ind,” But although the reader has heard her testify a general 
dislike to this species of Fortune’s favorites, Mrs. Dods had sense 
enough to know that a Nabob living in the neighborhood, who 
raises the price of eggs and poultry upon the good housewives 
around, was very different from a^ Nabob residing within her 
own gates, drawing all his supplies from her own larder, and 
paying, without hesitation or question, whatever bills her con- 
science permitted her to send in. In short, to come back to 
the point at which we perhaps might have stopped some time 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


^53 

since, landlady and guest were very much pleased with each 
other. 

But Ennui finds entrance into every scene, when the gloss 
of novelty is over ; and the fiend began to seize upon Mr. 
Touchwood just when he had got all matters to his mind in the 
Cleikum Inn — had instructed Dame Dods in the mysteries 
of curry and mulligatawny — drilled the chambermaid into the 
habit of making his bed at the angle recommended by Sir John 
Sinclair — and made some progress in instructing the hump- 
backep postilion in the Arabian mode of grooming. Pamphlets 
and newspapers, sent from London and from Edinburgh by loads, 
proved inadequate to rout this invader of Mr. Touchwood’s 
comforts ; and, at last, he bethought himself of company. 
The natural resource would have been the Well — but the trav- 
eler had a holy shivering of awe, which crossed him at the 
very recollection of Lady Penelope, who had worked him rather 
hard during his former brief residence ; and although Lady 
Binks’s beauty might have charmed an Asiatic by the plump 
graces of its contour, our senior was past the thoughts of a Sul- 
tana and a harem. At length a bright idea crossed his mind, 
and he suddenly demanded of Mrs. Dods, who was pouring out 
his tea for breakfast into a large cup of a very particular spe- 
cies of china, of which he had presented her with a service on 
condition of her rendering him this personal good office — 

“ Pray, Mrs. Dods, what sort of a man is your minister ? ” 

“ He’s just a man like other men, Mrs. Touchwood,” replied 
Meg Dods ; “ what sort of a man should he be ? ” 

“ A man like other men ? — ay — that is to say, he has the 
usual complement of legs and arms, eyes and ears — But is he 
a sensible man .? ” 

“ No muckie o’ that sir,” answered Dame Dods ; “ for if he 
was drinking this very tea that ye gat down from London wi’ 
the mail, he wad mistake it for common bohea.” 

“ Then he has not all his organs — wants a nose, or the use 
of one at least,” said Mr. Touchwood ; “ the tea is right gun- 
powder — a perfect nosegay.” 

“ Aweel, that may be,” said the landlady ; “ but I have 
gie’n the minister a dram frae my ain best bottle of real Coniac 
brandy, and may I never stir frae the bit, if he didna commend 
my whisky when he set down the glass! Ihere is no ane o 
them in the Presbytery but himsell — ay, or in the Synod either 
— but wad hae kend whisky frae brandy.” ^ 

“ But what sort of a man is he ? — Has he learning ? ” de- 
manded Touchwood. 

“ Learning ? — aneugh o’ that,” answered Meg ; “ just dung 


*54 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


donnart vvi’ learning — lets a’ things about the Manse gang 
whilk gate they will, sae they dinna plague him upon the score. 
An awfu’ thing it is to see sic an ill-redd-up house ! If I had 
the twa tawpies that sorn upon the honest man ae week under 
my drilling, I think I wad show them how to sort a lodging ! ” 

“ Does he preach well ! ” asked the guest. 

“ Oh, weel aneugh, weel aneugh — sometimes he will fling 
in a lang word or a bit of learning that our farmers and ban- 
net lairds canna sae v/eel follow — But what of that, as I am aye 
telling them? them that pay stipend get aye the mair for their 
siller.” 

*• Does he attend to his parish ? — Is he kind to the poor ? ” 
Ower muckle o’ that, Maister Touchwood— I am sure he 
makes the Word gude, and turns not away from those that ask 
o’ him — his very pocket is picked by a wheen ne’er-dc-weel 
blackguards, that gae sorning through the country.” 

“ Sorning through the country, Mrs. Dods ? — what would 
you think if you had seen the Fakirs, the Dervises, the Bonzes, 
the Imaums, the monks, and the mendicants, that I have 
seen ? — But go on, never mind— Does this minister of yours, 
come much into company ?”. 

“Company? — gae wa’,” replied Meg, “he keeps nae com- 
pany at a’, neither in hisain house or ony gate else. He comes 
down in the morning in a lang ragged night-gown, like a potato 
bogle, and down he sits amang his books ; and if they dinna 
bring him something to eat, the puir demented body has never 
the heart to cry for aught, and he has been kend to sit for ten 
hours thegither black fasting, whilk is a’ mere papistrie, though 
he does it just out o’ forget.” 

“ Why, landlady, in that case, your parson is anything but 
the ordinary kind of man you described him — Forget his din- 
ner ! — the man must be mad — he shall dine with me to-day — he 
shall have such a dinner as. I’ll be bound, he won’t forget in 
a hurry.” 

“Ye’ll maybe find that easier said than dune,” said Mrs. 
Dods ; “ the honest man hasna, in a sense, the taste of his 
mouth — forby, he never dines out of his ain house — that is, 
when he dines at a’ — A drink of milk and a bit of bread serves 
his turn, or maybe a cauld potato. It’s a heathenish fashion 
of him, for as good a man as he is ; for surely there is nae 
Christian man but loves his own bowels.” 

“Why, that may be,” answered Touchwood; “but I have 
known many who took so much care of their own bowels, my 
good dame, as to have none for any one else. But come — • 
bustle to the v;ork — gtX. us as good a dinner for two as you can 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


I5S 

set out — have it ready at three to an instant — get the old hock 
I had sent me from Cockburn — a bottle of the particular Indian 
Sherry — and another of your own old claret — fourth binn, you 
know, Meg. And sta\^, he is a priest, and must have port — 
have all ready, but don’t bring the wine into the sun, as that 
silly fool Beck did the other day. — I can’t go down to the larder 
myself, but let us have no blunders.” 

“ Nae fear, nae fear,” said Meg, with a toss of the head ; 
“ I need naebody to look into my larder but mysell, I trow — 
but it’s an unco order of wine for twa folk, and ane o’ them a 
minister.” 

“ Why, you foolish person, is there not the woman up the 
village that has just brought another fool into the world, and 
will she not need sack and caudle, if we leave some of our 
wine 1 ” 

“A gude ale-posset wad set her better,” said Meg; “how- 
ever, if it’s your will, it shall be my pleasure. But the like of 
sic a gentleman as yoursell never entered my doors ! ” 

The traveler was gone before she had completed the sen- 
tence ; and, leaving Meg to bustle and maunder at her leisure, 
away he marched, with the haste that characterized all his 
motions when he had any new project in his head, to form an 
acquaintance with the minister of St. Ronan’s, whom, while he 
walks down the street to the Manse, we will endeavor to intro- 
duce to the reader. 

The Rev. Josiah Cargill was the son of a small farmer in 
the south of Scotland ; and a weak constitution, joined to the 
disposition for study which frequently accompanies infirm 
health, induced his parents, though at the expense of some 
sacrifices, to educate him for the ministry. They were the 
rather led to submit to the privations which were necessary to 
support this expense, because they conceived from their family 
traditions, that he had in his veins some portion of the blood 
of that celebrated Boanerges of the Covenant, Donald Cargill, 
who was slain by the persecutors at the town of Queensferry, 
in the melancholy days of Charles II., merely because, in the 
plentitude of his sacerdotal power, he had cast out of the 
church, and delivered over to Satan by a formal excommunica- 
tion, the King and Royal family, with all the ministers and 
courtiers thereunto belonging. But if Josiah was really derived 
from this uncompromising champion, the heat of the family 
spirit which he might have inherited was qualified by the sweet- 
ness of his own disposition, and the quiet temper of the times 
in which he had the good fortune to live. He was charac- 
terized by all who knew him as a mild, gentle, and studious 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


lover of learning, who, in the quiet prosecution of his own sole 
object, the acquisition of knowledge, and especially of that 
connected with his profession, had the utmost indulgence for 
all whose pursuits were different from his own. His sole 
relaxations were those of a gentle, mild, and pensive temper, 
and v'ere limited to a ramble, almost always solitary, among 
the woods and hills, in praise of which he was sometimes guilty 
of a sonnet, but rather because he could not help the attempt, 
than as proposing to himself the fame or the rewards which 
attend the successful poet Indeed, far from seeking to insinu- 
ate his fugitive pieces into magazines or newspapers, he blushed 
at his poetical attempts even while alone, and, in fact, was 
rarely so indulgent to his vein as to commit them to paper. 

From the same maid-like modesty of disposition, our student 
suppressed a strong natural turn toward drawing, although 
he was repeatedly complimented upon the few sketches which 
he made, by some whose judgment was generally admitted. 
It was, however, this neglected talent, which, like the swift 
feet of the stag in the fable, was fated to render him a service 
which he might in vain have expected from his worth and 
learning. 

My Lord Bidmore, a distinguished connoisseur, chanced to 
be in search of a private tutor for his son and heir, the Honor- 
able Augustus Bidmore, and for this purpose had consulted the 
Professor of Theology, who passed before him in review several 
favorite students, any of whom he conceived well suited for 
the situation ; but still his answer to the important and 
unlooked-for question, “ Did the candidate understand draw- 
ing ? ” was in the negative. The Professor, indeed, added his 
opinion, that such an accomplishment was neither to be desired 
nor expected in a student of theology ; but, pressed hard with 
this condition as 3. sine qim non., he at length did remember a 
dreaming lad about the Hall, who seldom could begot to speak 
above his breath, even when delivering his essays, but was said 
to have a strong turn for drawing. This was enough for my 
Lord Bidmore, who contrived to obtain a sight of some of 
young Cargill’s sketches, and was satisfied that, under such a 
tutor, his son could not fair to maintain that character for 
hereditary taste which his father and grandfather had acquired 
at the expense of a considerable estate, the representative 
value of which was now the painted canvas in the great gallery 
at Bidmore House. 

Upon following up the inquiry concerning the young man’s 
character, he was found to possess all the other t^ecessary qualifi- 
cations of learning and morals, in a greater degree than perhaps 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


157 

Lord Bidmore might have required ; and, to the astonishment 
of his fellow-students, but more especially to his own, Josiah 
Cargill was promoted to the desired and desirable situation of 
private tutor to the Honorable Mr. Bidmore. 

Mr. Cargill did his duty ably and conscientiously, by a 
spoiled though good-humored lad, of weak health and very 
ordinary parts. He could not, indeed, inspire into him any 
portion of the deep and noble enthusiasm which characterizes 
the youth of genius ; but his pupil made such progress in each 
branch of his studies as his capacity enabled him to attain. 
He understood the learned languages, and could be very pro- 
found on the subject of various readings — he pursued science, 
and could class shells, pack mosses, and arrange minerals — he 
drew without taste, but with much accuracy ; and although he 
attained no commanding height in any pursuit, he knew enough 
of many studies, literary and scientific, to fill up his time, and 
divert from temptation a head, which was none of the strongest 
in point of resistance. 

Miss Augusta Bidmore, his lordship’s only •other child, 
received also the instructions of Cargill in such branches of 
science as her father chose she should acquire, and her tutor was 
capable to teach. But her progress was as different from that 
of her brother, as the fire of heaven differs from that grosser 
element which the peasant piles upon his smouldering hearth. 
Her acquirements in Italian and Spanish literature, in history, 
in drawing, and in all elegant learning, were such as to enchant 
her teacher, while at the same time it kept him on the stretch, 
lest, in her successful career, the scholar should outstrip the 
master. 

Alas ! such intercourse, fraught as it is with dangers arising 
out of the best and kindest, as well as the most natural feelings 
on either side proved in the present, as in many other instances, 
fatal to the peace of the preceptor. Every feeling heart will 
excuse a weakness, which we shall presently find carried with it 
its own severe punishment. Cadenus, indeed, believe him who 
will, has assured us, that, in such a perilous intercourse, he 
himself preserved the limits which were unhappily transgressed 
by the unfortunate Vanessa, his more impassioned pupil : — 

“ The innocent delight he took 
To see the virgin mind her book. 

Was but the master’s secret joy. 

In school to hear the finest boy.” 

But Josiah Cargill was less fortunate, or less cautious.# He 
suffered his fair pupil to become inexpressibly dear to him. 


ST. RONAN S WELL. 


before he discovered the precipice toward which he was mov- 
ing under the direction of a blind and misplaced passion. He 
was indeed utterly incapable of availing himself of the oppor- 
tunities afforded by his situation, to involve his* pupil in the 
toils of a mutual passion. Honor and gratitude alike forbade 
such a line of conduct, even had it been consistent with the 
natural bashfulness, simplicity, and innocence of his disposition. 
To sigh and suffer in secret, to form resoliuions of separating 
himself from a situation so fraught with danger, and to postpone 
from day to day the accomplishment of a resolution so prudent, 
was all to which the tutor found himself equal ; and it is not 
improbable, that the veneration with which he regarded his 
patron’s daughter, with the utter hopelessness of the passion 
which he nourished, tendered to render his love yet more pure 
and disinterested. 

At length the line of conduct which reason had long since 
recommended, could no longer be the subject of procrastination, 
Mr. Bidmore was destined to foreign travel for a twelvemonth, 
and Mr. Cajgill received from his patron the alternative of 
accompanying his pupil, or retiring upon a suitable provision, 
the reward of his past instructions. It can hardly be doubted 
which he preferred ; for while he was with young Bidmore, he 
did not seem entirely separated from his sister. He was sure to 
hear of Augusta frequently, and to see some part, at least, of 
the letters which she was to write to her brother ; he might also 
hope to be remembered in these letters as her “good friend 
and tutor; ” and to these consolations, his quiet, contemplative, 
and yet enthusiastic disposition, clung to as a secret source of 
pleasure, the only one which life seemed to open to him. 

But fate had a blow in store, which he had not anticipated. 
The chance of Augusta changing her maiden condition for that 
of a wife, probable as her rank, beauty, and fortune rendered 
such an event, had never once occurred to him ; and although 
he had imposed upon himself the unwavering belief that she 
never could be his, he was inexpressibly affected by the intelli- 
gence that she had become the property of another. 

The Honorable Mr. Bidmore’s letters to his father soon after 
announced that poor Mr. Cargill had been seized with a nervous 
fever, and again, that his reconvalescence was attended with so 
much debility, it seemed both of mind and body, as entirely to 
destroy his utility as a traveling companion. Shortly after 
this the travelers separated, and Cargill returned to his native 
country alone, indulging upon the road in a melancholy abstrac- 
tion of mind, which he had suffered to grow upon him since the 
mental shock which he had sustained, and which in time became 


ST. ROJVAN\^ WELL. 


159 

the most characteristical feature of his demeanor. His medi- 
tations were not even disturbed by any anxiety about his future 
subsistence, although the cessation of his employment seemed to 
render that precarious. For this, however. Lord Bidinore had 
made provision ; for, though a coxcomb where the fine arts were 
concerned, he was in other particulars a just and honorable 
man, who felt a sincere pride in having drawn the talents of 
Cargill from obscurity, and entertained due gratitude for the 
manner in which he had achieved the important task entrusted 
to him in his family. 

His lordship had privately purchased from the Mowbray 
family the patronage or advowson of the living of St. Ronan’s, 
then held by a very old incumbent, who died shortly afterward, 
so that upon arriving in England he found himself named to the 
vacant living. So indifferent, however, did Cargill feel himself 
toward this preferment, that he might possibly not have taken 
the trouble to go through the necessary steps previous to his 
ordination, had it not been on account of his mother, now a 
widow, and unprovided for, unless by the support which he 
afforded her. He visited her in her small retreat in the suburbs 
of Marchthorn, heard her pour out her gratitude to Heaven, 
that she should have been granted life long enough to witness 
her son’s promotion to a charge, which, in her eyes, was more 
honorable and desirable than an Episcopal see— heard her chalk 
out the life which they were to lead together in the humble 
independence which had thus fallen on him — he heard all this, 
and had no power to crush her hopes and her triumph by the 
indulgence of his own romantic feelings. He passed almost 
mechanically through the usual forms, and was inducted into 
the living of St. Ronan’s. 

Although fanciful and romantic, it was not in Josiah Cargill’s 
nature to yield to unavailing melancholy ; yet he sought relief, 
not in society, but in solitary study. His seclusion was the 
more complete, that his mother, whose education had been as 
much confined as her fortunes, felt awkward under her new 
dignities, and willingly acquiesced in her son’s secession from 
society, and spent her whole time in superintending the little 
household, and in her way providing for all emergencies, the 
occurrence of which might call Josiah out of his favorite book- 
room. As old age rendered her inactive, she began to regret 
the incapacity of her son to superintend his own household, and 
tid^«d something of matrimony, and the mysteries of the muckle 
wheel. To these admonitions Mr. Cargill returned only slight 
and evasive answers; and when the old lady slept in the village 
churchyard, at a reverend old age, there was no one to perform 


i6o 


ST, ROMANES WELL. 


the office of superintendent in the minister’s family. Neither 
did Josiah Cargill seek for any, but patiently submitted to all 
the evils with which a bachelor estate is attended, and which 
were at least equal to those which beset the renowned Mago- 
Pico during his state of celibacy.* His butter was ill churned, 
and declared by all but himself and the quean who made it, 
altogether uneatable ; his milk was burnt in the pan, his fruit 
and vegetables were stolen, and his black stockings mended 
with blue and white thread. 

For all these things the minister cared not, his mind ever 
bent upon far different matters. Do not let my fair readers do 
Josiah more than justice, or suppose that, like Beltenebros in 
the desert, he remained for years the victim of an unfortunate 
and misplaced passion. No — to the shame of tiie male sex be 
it spoken, that no degree of hopeless love, however desperate 
and sincere, can ever continue for years to imbitter life. There 
must be hope — there must be uncertainty — there must be recb 
procity, to enable the tyrant of the soul to secure a dominion 
of very long duration over a manly and well-constituted mind, 
which is itself desirous to will its freedom. The memory of 
Augusta had long faded from Josiah’s thoughts, or was remem- 
bered only as a pleasing, but melancholy and unsubstantial 
dream, while he was straining forward in pursuit of a yet nobler 
and coyer mistress, in a word, of Knowledge herself. 

Every huur that he could spare from his parochial duties, 
which he discharged with zeal honorable to his heart and head, 
was devoted to his studies, and spent among his books. But 
this chase of wisdom, though in itself interesting and dignified, 
was indulged to an excess which diminished the respectability, 
nay the utility of the deceived student ; and he forgot, amid 
the luxury of deep and dark investigations, that society has its 
claims, and that the knowledge which is unimparted, is neces- 
sarily a barren talent, and is lost to society, like the miser’s 
concealed hoard, by the death of the proprietor. His studies 
W'ere also under the additional disadvantage, that, being pur- 
sued for the gratification of a desultory longing after knowledge, 
and directed to no determined object, they turned on points 
rather curious than useful, and while they served for the 
amusement of the student himself, promised little utility to 
mankind at large. 

Bewildered amid abstruse researches, metaphysical and his- 
torical, Mr. Cargill, living only for himself and his books, ac- 
quired many ludicrous habits, which exposed the secluded 


Note E. Mago-Pico. 


ST. TONAN'S JVELL. 


l6l 

Student to the ridicule of the world, and which tinged, though 
they did not altogether obscure, the natural civility of an amta* 
ble disposition, as well as the acquired habits of politeness 
which he had learned in the good society that frequented Lord 
Bidmore’s mansion. He not only indulged in neglect of dress 
and appearance, and all those ungainly tricks which men are 
apt to acquire by living very much alone, but besides, and 
especially, he became probably the most abstracted and absent 
man of a profession peculiarly liable to cherish such habits. 
No man fell so regularly into the painful dilemma of mistaking, 
or, in Scottish phrase, miskenning, the person he spoke to, or 
more frequently inquired of an old maid for her husband, of a 
childless wife about her young people, of the distressed 
widower for the spouse at whose funeral he himself had 
assisted but a fortnight before ; and none was ever more fa- 
miliar with strangers whom he had never seen, or seemed more 
estranged from those who had a title to think themselv'^es well 
known to him. The worthy man perpetually confounded sex, 
age, and calling ; and when a blind beggar extended his hand 
for charity, he has been known to return the civility by taking 
off his hat, making a low bow, and hoping his worship was 
well. 

Among his brethren, Mr. Cargill alternately commanded 
respect by the depth of his erudition, and gave occasion to 
laughter from his odd peculiarities. On the latter occasions 
he used abruptly to withdraw from the ridicule he had pix 
yoked; for notwithstanding the general mildness of his char- 
acter, his solitary habits had engendered a testy impatience of 
contradiction, and a keener sense of pain arising from the 
satire of others, than was natural to his unassuming disposi- 
tion. As for his parishioners, they enjoyed, as may reason- 
sonably be supposed, many a hearty laugh at their pas- 
tor’s expense, and were sometimes, as Mrs. Dods hinted, more • 
astonished than edified by his learning ; for in pursuing a point 
of biblical criticism, he did not altogether remember that he was 
addressing a popular and unlearned assembly, not delivering a 
co7icio ad denim — a mistake, not arising from any conceit of his 
learning, or wish to display it, but from the same absence 
of mind which induced an excellent divine, when preaching be- 
fore a party of criminals condemned to death, to break off by 
promising the wretches, who were to suffer next morning, “the 
rest of the discourse at the first proper opportunity.” But all 
the neighborhood acknowledged Mr. Cargill’s serious and de- 
vout discharge of his ministerial duties; and the poor parish- 
ioners forgave his innocent peculiarities, in consideration of his 


i 62 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


unbounded charity; while the heritors, if they ridiculed the 
abstractions of Mr. Cargill on some subjects, had the grace to 
recollect that they had prevented him from suing an augment- 
ation of stipend, according to the fashion of the clergy around 
him, or from demanding at their hands a new manse, or the 
repair of the old one. He once, indeed, wished that they would 
amend the roof of his book room, which “ rained in * in a 
very pluvious manner; but receiving no direct answer from our 
friend Meiklewham, who neither relished the proposal nor saw 
means of eluding it, the minister quietly made the necessary 
repairs at his own expense, and gave the heritors no further 
trouble on the subject. 

Such was the worthy divine whom our bon vivcmt at the 
Cleikum Inn hoped to conciliate by a good dinner and Cock- 
burn’s particular ; an excellent menstruum in most cases, but 
not likely to be very efficacious on the present occasion. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. 

THE ACQUAINTANCE. 

’Twixt us thus the difference trims: — 

Using head instead of limbs, 

You have read what I have seen; 

Using limbs instead of head, 

I have seen what you have read — 

Which way does the balance lean ? 

Butler. 

Our traveler, rapid in all his resolutions and motions, strode 
stoutly down the street, and arrived at the Manse, which was, 
as we have already described it, all but absolutely ruinous. 
The total desolation and want of order about the door would 
have argued the place uninhabited, had it not been for two or 
three miserable tubs with suds, or such like sluttish contents, 
which were left there, that those who broke their shins among 
them might receive a sensible proof, that “ here the hand of 
woman had been.” The door beins: half off its hinges, the 
entrance was for the time protected by a broken harrow, which 
must necessarily be removed before entry could be obtained. 
The little garden, which might have given an air of comfort to 


* Scottici for admitted the rain.’ 


^71 ROMANES WELL. 


163 

the old house had it been kept in any order, was abandoned 
to a desolation, of which that of the sluggard was only a type ; 
and the minister’s man, an attendant always proverbial for 
doing half work, and who seemed in the present instance to do 
none, was seen among docks and nettles, solacing himself with 
the few gooseberries which remained on some moss-grown 
bushes. To him Mr. Touchwood called loudly, inquiring after 
his rri^ster ; but the clown, conscious of being taken in flagrant 
delict, as the law says, fled from him like a guilty thing, instead 
of obeying his summons, and was soon heard htcppiii^ and 
geeiiig to the cart, which he had left on the other side of the 
broken wall. 

Disappointed in his application to the man-servant, Mr. 
Touchwood knocked with his cane, at first gently, then harder, 
hallooed, bellowed, and shouted, in the hope of calling the 
attention of some one within doors, but received not a word in 
reply. At length, thinking that no trespass could be committed 
upon so forlorn and deserted an establishment, he removed 
the obstacles to entrance with such a noise as he thought must 
necessarily have alarmed some one, if there was any live per- 
son about the house at all. All was still silent; and, entering 
a passage where the damp walls and broken flags corresjjonded 
to. the appearance of things out of doors, he opened a door to 
the left, which, wonderful to say, still had a latch remaining, 
and found himself in the parlor, and in the presence of the 
person whom he came to visit. 

Amid a heap of books and other literary lumber, which had ac- 
cumulated around him, sat, in his well-worn leathern elbow-chair, 
the learned minister of St. Ronan’s; a thin, spare man, beyond 
the middle age, of a dark complexion, but with eyes which, 
though now obscured and vacant, had been once bright, soft, 
and expressive, and whose features seemed interesting, the 
rather that, notwithstandiing the carelessness of his dress, he was 
in the habit of performing his ablutions with Eastern precision ; 
for he had forgot neatness, but not cleanliness. His hair might 
have appeared much more disorderly, had it not been thinned by 
time, and disposed chiefly around the sides of his countenance 
and the back part of his head ; black stockings, ungartered, 
marked his professional dress, and his feet were thrust into old 
slip-shod shoes, which served him instead of slippers. The rest 
of his garments, so far as visible, consisted in a plaid nightgown 
wrapt in long folds round his stooping and emaciated length 
of body, and reaching down to the slippers aforesaid. He was 
so intently engaged in studying the book before him, a folio of 
no ordinary bulk, that he totally disregarded the noise which 


ST. RONAIsr^S WELL. 


164 

Mr. Touchwood made in entering the room, as well as the 
coughs and hems with which he thought it proper to announce his 
presence. 

No notice being taken of these inarticulate signals, Mr. 
Touchwood, however great an enemy he was to ceremony, saw 
the necessity of introducing his business, as an apology for his 
intrusion. 

“Hem! sir — Ha, hem! — You see before you a persSn in 
some distress for want of society, who has taken the liberty to 
call on you as a good pastor, who may be, in Christian charity, 
willing to afford him a little of your company, since he is tired 
of his own.” 

Of this speech Mr. Cargill only understood the words “ dis- 
tress ” and “ charity,” sounds with which he was well acquainted, 
and which never failed to produce some effect upon him. He 
looked at his visitor with lack-lustre eye, and, without correcting 
the first opinion which he had formed, although the stranger’s 
plump and sturdy frame, as well as his nicely-brushed coat, glanc- 
ing cane, and, above all, his upright and self-satisfied manner 
resembled in no respect the dress, form, or bearing of a mendi- 
cant, he quietly thrust a shilling into his hand, and relapsed into 
the studious contemplation which the entrance of Touchwood 
had interrupted, 

“ Upon my word, my good sir,” said his visitor, surprised at 
a degree of absence of mind which he could hardly have con- 
ceived possible, “ you have entirely mistaken my object.” 

“ I am sorry my mite is insufficient, my friend,” said the 
clergyman, without again raising his eyes, “ it is all I have at 
present to bestow.” 

“ If you will have the kindness to look up for a moment, my 
good sir,” said the traveler, “you may possibly perceive that 
you labor under a considerable mistake.” 

Mr. Cargill raised his head, recalled his attention, and, seeing 
that he had a well-dressed, respectable-looking person before 
him, he exclaimed in much confusion, “ Ha ! — yes — on my 
word, I was so immersed in my book — I believe — I think ! 
have the pleasure to see my worthy friend, Mr. Lavender? ” 

“No such thing, Mr. Cargill,” replied Mr. Touchwood. “ I 
will save you the trouble of trying to recollect me — you. never 
saw me before. — But do not let me disturb your studies — I 
am in no hurry, and my business can wait your leisure.” 

“ I am much obliged,” said Mr. Cargill ; “ have the good- 
ness to take a chair, if you can find one — I have a train of thought 
to recover — a slight calculation to finish — and then I am at 
your command.” 


S7\ RONAN^S WELL, 


The visitor found among the broken furniture, not without 
difficulty, a seat strong enough to support his weight, and sat 
down, resting upon his cane, and looking attentively at his host, 
wffio very soon became totally insensible of his presence. A 
long pause of total silence ensued, only disturbed by the rustling 
leaves of the folio from which Mr. Cargill seemed to be making 
extracts, and now and then by a little exclamation of surprise 
and impatience, when he dipped his pen, as happened once or 
twice, into his snuff-box, instead of the ink-standish which stood 
beside it. At length, just as Mr. Touchwood began to think the 
scene as tedious as it was singular, the abstracted student raised 
his head, and spoke as if in soliloquy, “From Aeon, Accor, 
or St. John d’Acre, to^Jerusalem, how far ? ” 

“ Twenty-three miles north north-west,'’ answered his visitor 
without hesitation. 

Mr. Cargill expressed no more surprise at a question which 
he had put to himself being answered by the voice of another, 
than if he had found the distance on the map, and, indeed, was 
not probably aware of medium through which his question had 
been solved ; and it was the tenor of the answer alone which he 
attended to in his reply. — “ Twenty-three miles — Ingulphus,” 
laying his hand on the volume, “ and Jeffrey Winesauf do not 
agree in this.” 

“ They may both be d — d, then, for lying blockheads,” 
answered the traveler. 

“ You might have contradicted their authority, sir, without 
using such an expression,” said the divine, gravely. 

“I cry you mercy. Doctor,” said Mr. Touchwood; “but 
would you compare these parchment fellows with me, that 
have made my legs my compasses over great part of the in- 
habited world ? ” 

“ You have been in Palestine, then ? ” said Mr. Cargill, 
drawing himself upright in his chair, and speaking with eager- 
ness and with interest. 

“ You may swear that. Doctor, and at Acre too. Why, I 
was there the month after Boney had found it too hard a nut 
to crack. — I dined with Sir Sydney’s chum, old Djezzar Pacha, 
and an excellent dinner we had, but for a dessert of noses and 
ears brought on after the last remove, which spoiled my diges- 
tion. Old Djezzar thought it so good a joke, that you hardly 
saw a man in Acre whose face was not as flat as the palm of 
my hand — Gad, I respect my olfactory organ, and set off the 
next morning as fast as the most cursed hard-trotting drome- 
dary that ever fell to poor pilgrim’s lot could contrive to 
tramp.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


1 66 

“ If you have really been in the Holy Land, sir,” said Mr, 
Cargill, whom the reckless gayety of Touchwood’s manner 
rendered somewhat suspicious of a trick, “ you will be able 
materially to enlighten me on the subject of the Crusades.” 

“They happened before my time. Doctor,” replied the 
traveler. 

“ You are to understand that my curiosity refers to the 
geography of the countries where these events took place,” 
answered Mr. Cargill. 

“ Oh ! as to that matter you are lighted on your feet,” said 
Mr. Touchwood ; “ for the time present 1 can fit you. Turk, 
Arab, Copt, and Druse, I know every pne of them, and can 
make you as well acquainted with them as myself. Without 
stirring a step beyond your threshold, you shall know Syria as 
well as I do. — But one good turn deserves another — in that 
case, you must have the goodness to dine with me.” 

“I go seldom abroad, sir,” said the minister, with a good 
deal of hesitation, for his habits of solitude and seclusion could 
not be entirely overcome, even by the expectation raised by 
the traveler’s discourse ; “ yet I cannot deny myself the 
pleasure of waiting on a gentleman possessed of so much 
experience.” 

“Well, then,” said Mr. Touchwood, “three be the hour — I 
never dine later, and always to the minute — and the place, the 
Cleikum Inn, up the way ; where Mrs. Dods is at this moment 
busy in making ready such a dinner as your learning has seldom 
seen, Doctor, for I brought the receipts from the four different 
quarters of the globe.” 

Upon this treaty they parted ; and Mr Cargill, after musing 
for a short while upon the singular chance which had sent a 
living man to answer those doubts, for which he was in vain 
consulting ancient authorities, at length resumed, by degrees, 
the train of reflection and investigation which Mr. Touchwood’s 
visit had interrupted, and in a short time lost all recollection 
of his episodical visitor, and of the engagement which he had 
formed. 

Not so Mr. Touchwood, who, when not occupied with busi- 
ness of real importance, had the art, as the reader may have 
observed, to make a prodigious fuss about nothing at all. 
Upon the present occasion, he bustled in and out of the kitchen, 
till Mrs. Dods lost patience, and threatened to pin the dishclout 
to his tail ; a menace which he pardoned, in consideration, that 
in all the countries which he had visited, which are sufficiently 
civilized to boast of cooks, these artists, toiling in their fiery 
element, have a privilege to be testy and impatient. He there- 


ST. KONAN^S WELL, 


167 

fore retreated from the torrid region of Mrs. Dods’s microcosm, 
and employed his time in the usual devices of loiterers, partly 
by walking for an appetite, partly by observing the progress of 
his watch toward three o’clock, when he had happily succeeded 
in getting an employment more serious. His table in the blue 
parlor, was displayed with two covers, after the fairest fashion 
of the Cleikum Inn ; yet the landlady, with a look “ civil but 
sly,” contrived to insinuate a doubt whether the clergyman 
would come, “ when a’ was dune.” 

Mr. Touchwood scorned to listen to such an insinuation until 
the fated hour arrived, and brought with it no Mr. Cargill. 
The impatient entertainer allowed five minutes for difference of 
clocks, and variation of time, and other five for the procrastina- 
tion, of one who went little into society. But no sooner were 
the last five minutes expended than he darted off for the Manse, 
not, indeed, much like a grayhound or a deer, but with the 
momentum of a corpulent and well-appetized elderly gentleman, 
who is in haste to secure his dinner. He bounced without 
ceremony into the parlor, where he found the worthy divine 
clothed in the same plaid nightgown, and seated in the very 
same elbow-chair, in which he had left him five hours before. 
His sudden entrance recalled to Mr. Cargill, not an accurate, 
but something of a general recollection, of what had passed in 
the morning, and he hastened to apologize with “ Ha ! — indeed 
— already ? — upon my word, Mr. A — a — , I mean my dear 
friend — I am afraid I have used you ill — I forgot to order any 
dinner — but we will do our best. Eppie — Eppie ! ” 

Not at the first, second, nor third call, but ex intervallo^ as 
the lawyers express it, Eppie, a bare-legged, shock-headed, 
thick-ankled, red-armed wench, entered, and announced her 
presence by an emphatic “ What’s your wull ? ” 

“ Have you got anything in the house for dinner, Eppie } 

“ Naething but bread and milk, plenty o’t — what should I 
have ? ” , 

“ You see, sir,” said Mr. Cargill, “ you are like to have a 
Pythagorean entertainment ; but you are a traveler, and have 
doubtless been in your time thankful for bread and milk.” 

“ But never when there was anything better to be had,” said 
Mr. Touchwood. “ Come, Doctor, I beg your pardon, but your 
wits are fairly gone a wool-gathering ; it was I invited you to 
dinner, up at the Inn yonder, not you me.” 

“ On my word, and so it was,” said Mr. Cargill ; “ I knew I 
was quite right — I knew there was a dinner engagement betwixt 
us, I was sure of that, and that is the main point. — Come, sir, 
I wait upon you.” 


i68 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


“ Will you not first change your dress ? ” said the visitor, 
seeing with astonishment that the divine proposed to attend 
him in his plaid nightgown ; “ why, we shall have all the boys 
in the village after us — you will look like an owl in sunshine, 
and they will flock round you like so many hedge sparrows.” 

“ I will get my clothes instantly,” said the worthy clergy- 
man : “ I will get ready directly — I am really ashamed to keep 
you waiting, my dear Mr. — eh — eh — your name has this instant 
escaped me.” 

“ It is Touchwood, sir, at your service ; 1 do not believe you 
ever heard it before,” answered the traveler. 

“ True — right — no more I have — well, my good Mr. Touch- 
stone, will you sit down an instant until we see what we can 
do strange slaves we make ourselves to these bodies of ours, 
Mr. Touchstone — the clothing and the sustaining of them costs 
us much thought and leisure, which might be better employed 
in catering for the wants of our immortal spirits.” 

Mr. Touchw'ood thought in his heart that never had Brah- 
min or Gym nosophist less reason to reproach himself with ex- 
cess in the indulgence of the table, or of the toilette, than the 
sage before him ; but he assented to the doctrine, as he would 
have done to any minor heresy, rather than protract matters by 
further discussing the point at present. In a short time the 
minister was dressed in his Sunday’s suit without any further 
mistake than turning one of his black stockings inside out ; 
and Mr. Touchwood, happy as was Boswell when he carried off 
Dr. Johnson in triumph to dine with Strachan and John 
Wilkes, had the pleasure of escorting him to the Cleikum Inn. 

In the course of the afternoon they became more familiar, 
and the familiarity led to their forming a considerable estimate 
of each other’s powers and acquirements. It is true, the 
traveler thought the student too pedantic, too much attached 
to systems, which, formed in solitude, he was unwilling to 
renounce, whenever contradicted by the voice and testimony of 
experience ; and, moreover, considered his utter inattention to 
the quality of what he ate and drank, as unworthy of a rational, 
that is, of a cooking creature, or of a being who, as defined 
by Johnson, holds his dinner as the most important business of 
the day. Cargill did not act up to this definition, and was, 
therefore, in the eyes of his new acquaintance, so far ignorant 
and uncivilized. What then ? He was still a sensible, intelli- 
gent man, however abstemious and bookish. 

On the other hand, the divine could not help regarding his 
new friend as something of an epicure or belly-god, nor could 
he observe in him either the perfect education, or the polished 


ST. SONANTS WELL, 


169 

bearing, which mark the gentleman of rank, and of which, 
while he mingled with the world, he had become a competent 
judge. Neither did it escape him, that in the catalogue of Mr. 
Touchwood’s defects, occurred that of many travelers, a slight 
disposition to exaggerate his own personal adventures, and to 
prose concerning his own exploits. But then his acquaintance 
with Eastern manners, existing now in the same state in which 
they were found during the time of the Crusades, formed a 
living commentary on the works of William of Tyre, Raymund 
of Saint Giles, the Moslem annals of Abulfaragi, and other his- 
torians of the dark period, with which his studies were at pres- 
ent occupied. 

A friendship, a companionship at least, was therefore struck 
up hastily betwixt these two originals ; and, to the astonishment 
of the whole parish of St. Ronan’s, the minister thereof was 
seen once more leagued and united with an individual of his 
species, generally called among them the Cleikum Nabob. Their 
intercourse sometimes consisted in long walks, which they took 
in company, traversing, however, as limited a space of ground, 
as if it had been actually roped in for their pedestrian exercise. 
Their parade was, according to circumstances, a low haugh at 
the nether end of the ruinous hamlet, or the esplanade in front 
of the old castle ; and, in either case, the direct longitude of 
their promenade never exceeded a hundred yards. Sometimes, 
but rarely, the divine took share of Mr. Touchwood’s meal, 
though less splendidly set forth than when he was first invited 
to partake of it ; for, like the unostentatious owner of the gold 
cup in Parnell’s Hermit, 

“ Still he welcomed, but with less of cost.” 

On these occasions the conversation was not of the regular and 
compacted nature which passes betwixt men, as they are ordin- 
arily termed, of this world. On the contrary, the one party 
was often thinking of Saladin and Cceur de Lion, when the 
other was haranguing on Hyder Ali and Sir Eyre Coote. Still, 
however, the one spoke, and the other seemed to listen ; and, 
perhaps, the lighter intercourse of society, where amusement is 
the sole object, can scarcely rest on a safer and more secure 
basis. 

It was on one of the evenings when the learned divine had 
taken his place at Mr. Touchwood’s social board, or rather at 
Mrs. Dods’s, — for a cup of excellent tea, the only luxury which 
Mr. Cargill continued to partake of with some complacence, 
was the regale before them, — that a card was delivered to the 
Nabob. ' 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


170 

“ Mr. and Miss Mowbray see company at Shaws Castle on 
the twentieth current, at two o’clock — dejeuner — dresses in 
character admitted — A dramatic picture.” — “ See company ? 
the more fools they,” he continued, by way of comment. “ See 
company ? — choice phrases are ever commendable — and this 
piece of pasteboard is to intimate that one may go and meet all 
the fools of the parish, if they have a mind — in my time they 
asked the honor, or the pleasure, of a stranger’s company. I 
suppose, by and by, we shall have in this country the 'cere- 
monial of a Bedouin’s tent, where every ragged Hadgi, with his 
green turban, comes in slap without leave asked, and has his 
black paw among the rice, with no other apology than Salam 
Alicum. — ‘ Dresses in character — Dramatic picture ’ — what new 
tomfoolery can that be ? — but it does not signify. — Doctor ! I 
say. Doctor ! — but he is in the seventh heaven — I say, Mother 
Dods, you who know all the news — Is this the feast that was 
put off until Miss Mowbray should be better ? ” 

“ Troth is it, Maisier Touchwood — they are no in the way 
of giving twa entertainments in one season — no very wise to 
gie ane maybe — but they ken best.” 

“ I say. Doctor, Doctor ! — Bless his five wits, he is charging 
the Moslemah with stout King Richard — I say. Doctor, do you 
know anything of these Mowbrays t ” 

“ Nothing ♦extremely particular,” answered Mr. Cargill, 
after a pause ; it is an ordinary tale of greatness, which blazes 
in one century, and is extinguished in the next. I think Cam- 
den says, that Thomas Mowbray, who was Grand-Marshal of 
England, succeeded to that high office, as well as to the Duke- 
dom of Norfolk, as grandson of Roger Bigot, in 1301.” 

“ Pshaw, man, you are back into the fonrieenth century — I 
mean these Mowbrays of St. Ron an ’s — now, don’t fall asleep 
again until you have answered my question — and don’t look so 
like a startled hare — I am speaking no treason.” 

The clergyman floundered a moment, as is usual with an 
absent man who is recovering the train of his ideas, or a soir- 
nambulist when he is suddenly awakened, and then answered, 
still with hesitation, — 

“ Mowbray of St. Ronan’s ! — ha — eh — I know — that is — I 
did know the family.” 

“ Here they are going to give a masquerade, a bal pare^ 
private theatricals, I think, and what not,” handing him the 
card. 

“ I saw something of this a fortnight ago,” said Mr. Cargill ; 
“ indeed, I either had a ticket myself, or I saw such a one as 
that.” 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


171 

“ Are you sure you did not attend the party, Doctor ? ” said 
the Nabob. 

Who attend I ? you are jesting, Mr. Touchwood.” 

“ But are you quite positive ? ” demanded Mr. Touchwood, 
who had observed, to his infinite amusement, that the learned 
and abstracted scholar was so conscious of his own peculiarities, 
as never to be very sure on any such subject. 

“ Positive ! ” he repeated with embarrassment ; “ my memory 
is so wretched that I never like to be positive — but had 1 done 
anything so far out of my usual way, 1 must have remembered 
it, one would think — and — I am positive I was not there.” 

“ Neither could you, Doctor,” said the Nabob, laughing at 
the process by which his friend reasoned himself into confi- 
dence ; “ for it did not take place-*«it was adjourned, and this 
is the second invitation — there will be one for you, as you had 
a card to the former. — Come, Doctor, you must go — you and I 
will go together — I as an Imaum — I dan say my Bismillah 
with any Hadgi of them all — You as a cardinal, or what you 
like best.” 

“ Who, I ? — it is unbecoming my station, Mr. Touchwood,” 
said the clergyman — “ a folly altogether inconsistent with my 
habits.” 

“ All the better — you shall change your habits.” 

“ You had better gang up and see them, Mr. Cargill,” said 
Mrs. Dods ; “ for it’s maybe the last sight ye may see of Miss 
Mowbray — they say she is to be married and off to England 
ane of thae odd-come-shortlies, wi’ some of the gowks about the 
Waal down by.” 

“ Married ! ” said the clergyman ; “ it is impossible.” 

“ But where’s the impossibilit}^ Mr. Cargill, when ye see folk 
marry every day, and buckle tihem yoursell into the bargain .? — ■ 
Maybe ye think the puir lassie has a bee in her bannet ; but 
ye ken yoursell if naebody but wise folk were to marry, the 
warld wad be ill peopled. I think it’s the wise folk that keep 
single, like yoursell and me, Mr. Cargill. — Gude guide us ! — 
are ye weel ? — will ye taste a drap o’ something.? ” 

“Sniff at my otto of roses,” said Mr. Touchwood ; “the 
scent would revive the dead — why, what in the devil’s name is 
the meaning of this .? — you were quite well just now.” 

“ A sudden qualm,” said Mr. Cargill, recovering himself. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Cargill,” said Dame Dods, “ this comes of your 
lang fasts.’’ 

“ Right, dame,” subjoined Mr. Touchwood ; “ and of break- 
ing them with sour milk and pease bannock — the least morsel 
of Christian food is rejected by the stomach, just as a small 


ST. J^ONAN^S WELL. 


172 

gentleman refuses the visit of a creditable neighbor, lest he see 
the nakedness of the land — ha ! ha ! ” 

“And there is really a talk of Miss Mowbray of St. Ronan’s 
being married ” said the clergyman. 

“Troth is there,” said the dame; “ it’s Trotting Nelly’s 
news ; and though she likes a drappie, I dinna think she would 
invent a lee or carry ane — at least to me, that am a gude cus- 
tomer.” 

“ This must be looked to,” said Mr. Cargill, as if speaking 
to himself. 

“ In troth, and so it should,” said Dame Dods ; “ it’s a sin 
and a shame if they should employ the tinkling cymbal they 
ca’ Chatterly, and sic a Presbyterian trumpet as yoursell in 
the land, Mr. Cargill ; and if ye will take a fule’s advice, ye 
winna let the multure be ta’en by your ain mill, Mr. Cargill.” 

“ True, true, good Mother Dods,” said the Nabob ; “gloves 
and hat-bands are things to be looked after ; and Mr. Cargill 
had better go down to this cursed festivity with me, in order to 
see after his own interest.” 

“ I must speak with the young, lady,” said the clergyman, 
still in a brown study. 

“ Right, right, my boy of blackletter,” said the Nabob ; 
“ with me you shall go, and we’ll bring them to submission to 
mother-church, I warrant you — Why, the idea of being cheated 
in such a way, would scare a Santon * out of his trance. — What 
dress will you wear ? ” 

“ My own, to be sure,” said the divine, starting from his 
reverie. 

“ True, thou art right again — they may want to knit the 
knot on the spot, and w’ho would be married by a parson in 
masquerade ? — We go to the entertainment though — it is a done 
thing.” 

The clergyman assented, provided he should receive an in- 
vitation ; and as that was found at the Manse, he had no ex- 
cuse for retracting, even if he had seemed to desire one. 


* [Mahommedan hermit or enthusiast.] 


ST, TONAN^S WELL, 


173 


CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. 
fortune’s frolics. 


Count Basset . — We gentlemen, whose carriages run on the four aces, 
are apt to have a wheel out of order. 

The Provoked Husband. 

Our history must now look a little backward ; and although 
it is rather foreign to our natural style of composition, it must 
speak more in narrative, and less in dialogue, rather telling 
what happened, than its effects upon the actors. Our promise, 
however, is only conditional, for we foresee temptations which 
may render it difficult for us exactly to keep it. 

The arrival of the young Earl of Etherington at the salutif- 
erous fountain of St. Ronan’s had produced the strongest 
sensation ; especially, as it was joined with the singular acc 
dent of the attempt upon his lordship’s person, as. he took a 
short cut through the woods upon foot, at a distance from his 
equipage and servants. The gallantry with which he beat off 
the highwayman, was only equal to his generosity ; for he 
declined making any researches after the poor devil, although 
his lordship had received a severe wound in the scuffle. 

Of the “ three black Graces,” as they have been termed by 
one of the most pleasing companions of our time. Law and 
Physic hastened to do homage to Lord Etherington, repre- 
sented by Mr. Meiklewham and Dr. Quackleben, while Divin- 
ity, as favorable, though more coy, in the person of the 
Reverend Mr. Simon Chatterly, stood on tiptoe to offer any 
service in her power. 

For the honorable reason already assigned, his lordship, 
after thanking Mr. Meiklewham, and hinting, that he might 
have different occasion for his services, declined his offer to 
search out the delinquent by whom he had been wounded ; 
while to the care of the Doctor he subjected the cure of a smart 
flesh-wound in the arm, together with a slight scratch on the 
temple ; and so very genteel was his behavior on the occasion, 
that the Doctor, in his anxiety for his safety, enjoined him 
a month’s course of the waters, if he would enjoy the comfort 
of a complete and perfect recovery. Nothing so frequent, he 
could assure his loidship, as the opening of cicatrised wounds ; 


ST. SONAN'S WELL. 


174 

and the waters of St. Ronan’s spring being, according to Dr. 
Quackleben, a remedy for all the troubles which flesh is heir 
to, could not fail to equal those of Barege, in facilitating the 
discharge of all splinters or extraneous matter, which a bullet 
may chance to incorporate with the human frame, to its great 
annoyance. For he was wont to say, that although he could 
not declare the waters which he patronized to be an absolute 
panpharmacon^ yet he would with word and pen maintain, 
that they possessed the principal virtues of the most celebrated 
medicinal springs in the known world. In short, the love of 
Alpheus for Arethusa was a mere jest, compared to that which 
the Doctor entertained for his favorite fountain. 

The new and noble guest, whose arrival so much illustrated 
these scenes of convalescence and of gayety, was not at first seen 
so much at the ordinary, and other places of public resort, as 
had been the hope of the worthy company assembled. His 
health and his wound proved an excuse for making his visits to 
the society few and far between. 

But when he did appear, his manners and person were in- 
finitely captivating; and even the carnation-colored silk hand- 
kerchief, which suspended his wounded arm, together with the 
paleness and languor which loss of blood had left on his hand- 
some and open countenance, gave a grace to the whple person, 
which many of the ladies declared irresistible. All contended 
for his notice, attracted at once by his affability, and piqued by 
the calm and easy nonchalance with which it seemed to be 
blended. The scheming and selfish Mowbray, the coarse- 
minded and brutal Sir Bingo, accustomed to consider them- 
selves, and to be considered, as the first men of the party, sunk 
into comparative insignificance. But chiefly Lady Penelope 
threw out the captivations of her wit and her literature ; while 
Lady Binks, trusting to her natural charms, endeavored 
equally to attract his notice. The other nymphs of the Spa 
held a little back, upon the principle of that politeness, which, 
at continental hunting parties, affords the first shot at a fine 
piece of game to the person of the highest rank present ; but 
the thought throbbed in many a fair bosom, that their lad3^ships 
might miss their aim, in spite of the advantages thus allowed 
them, and that there might then be room for less exalted, but 
perhaps not less skilful markswomen, to try their chance. 

But while the Earl thus withdrew from public society, it 
was necessary, at least natural, that he should choose some one 
with whom to share the solitude of his own apartment ; and 
Mowbray, superior in rank to the half-pay whisky-drinking Cap- 
tain MacTurk — in dash to Winterblossom, who was broken 


ST. MONAJV^S WELL. 


175 

down, and turned twaddler — and in tact and sense to Sir Bingo 
Binks — easily manceuvred himself into his lordship’s more inti- 
mate society ; and internally thanking the honest footpad, whose 
bullet had been the indirect means of secluding his intended 
victim from all society but his own, he gradually began to feel 
the way, and prove the strength of his antagonist, at the 
various games of skill and hazard which he introduced, appar- 
ently with the sole purpose of relieving the tedium of a sick- 
chamber. 

Meiklewham, who felt, or affected, the greatest possible in- 
terest in his patron’s success, and who watched every oppor- 
tunity to inquire how his schemes advanced, received at first 
such favorable accounts as made him grin from ear to ear, rub 
his hands, and chuckle forth such bursts of glee as only the 
success of triumphant roguery could have extorted from him. 
Mowbray looked grave, however, and checked his mirth. 

“ There was something in it after all,” he said, “ that he 
could not perfectly understand. Etherington, a used hand— 
d — d sharp — up to everything, and yet he lost his money like 
a baby.” '■ 

“ And what the matter how he loses it, so you win it like a 
man ? ” said his legal friend and adviser. 

“ Why, hang it, I cannot tell,” replied Mowbray — “ were it 
not that I think he has scarce the impudence to propose such 
a thing to succeed, curse me but f should think he was coming 
the old sdldier over me, and keeping up his game. — But no — he 
can scarce have the impudence to think of that. — I find, how- 
ever, that he has done Wolverine — cleaned out poor Tom — • 
though Tom wrote to me the precise contrary, yet the truth has 
since come out — Well, I shall avenge him, for I see his lord- 
ship is to be had as well as other folks.” 

“ Weel, Mr. Mowbray,” said the lawyer, in a tone of affected 
sympathy, “ ye ken your own ways best — but the heavens will 
bless a moderate mind. I would not like to see you ruin this 
poor fundi tus, that is to say, out and out. — To lose some of 

the ready wilt do him no great harm, and ma^^begive him a les- 
son he may be the better of as long as he lives — but I wad 
not, as an honest man, wish you to go deeper — you should spare 
the lad, Mr. Mowbray.” 

“ Who spared me^ Meiklewham ? ” said Mowbray, with a 
look and tone of deep emphasis — “No, no — he must go through 
the mill — money and money’s worth. — His seat is called Oaken- 
dale — think of that, Mick — Oakendale ! Oh, name of thrice 
happy augury ! — Speak not of mercy, Mick — the squirrels of 
Oakendale must be dismounted, and learn to go a-foot. — What 


ST. RONAN*S WELL. 


176 

mercy can the wandering lord of Troy expect among the Greeks ? 
— Tte Greeks !— I am a very Suliote — the bravest of Greeks. 

‘I think not of pity, I think not of fear, 

He neither must know who would serve the Vizier.’ 

And necessity, Mick,’’ he concluded, with a tone something al- 
tered, “ necessity is as unrelenting a leader as any Vizier or 
Pacha, whom Scanderbeg ever fought with, or Byron has sung.” 

Meiklewham echoed his patron’s ejaculation with a sound 
betwixt a whine, a chuckle, and a groan ; the first being de- 
signed to express his pretended pity for the destined victim ; 
the second his sympathy with his patron’s prospects of success ; 
and the third being a whistle admonitory of the dangerous 
courses through which his object was to be pursued. 

Suliote as he boasted himself, Mowbray had, soon after this 
conversation, some reason to admit that, 

“ When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.” 

j 

The light skirmishing betwixt the parties was ended and the 
serious battle commenced with some caution on either side ; 
each perhaps desirous of being master of his opponent’s system 
of tactics, before exposing his own. Piquet, the most beautiful 
game at which a man can make sacrifice of his fortune, was 
one with which Mowbray had, for his misfortune perhaps, been 
accounted, from an early age, a great proficient, and in which 
the Earl of Etherington, with less experience, proved no novice. 
They now played for such stakes as Mowbray’s state of fortune 
rendered considerable to him, though his antagonist appeared 
not to regard the amount. And they played with various suc- 
cess ; for, though Mowbray at times returned with a smile or 
confidence the inquiring looks of his friend Meiklewham, there 
were other occasions on which he seemed to evade them, as if 
his own had a sad confession to make in reply. 

These alternations, though frequent, did not occupy, after 
all, many days ; for Mowbray, a friend of all hours, spent much 
of his time in Lord Etherington’s apartment, and these few 
days were days of battle. In the meantime, as his lordship was 
now sufficiently recovered to join the party at Shaws Castle, 
and Miss Mowbray’s health being announced as restored, that 
proposal was renewed, with the addition of a dramatic enter- 
tainment, the nature of which we shall afterward have occasion 
to explain. Cards were anew issued to all those who had been 
formerly included in the invitation, and, of course to Mr. Touch- 
wood, as formerly a resident at the Well, and now in the neigh- 


.ST. RONAN^S WELL. 17^ 

borhood ; it being previously agreed among the ladies, that a 
Nabob, though sometimes a dingy or damaged commodity, was 
not to be rashly or unnecessarily neglected. As to the parson 
he had been asked, of course, as an old acquaintance of the 
Mowbray house, not to be left out when the friends of the 
family were invited on a great scale ; but his habits were well 
known, and it was no more expected that he would leave his 
manse on such an occasion, than that the kirk should loosen 
itself from its foundations. 

It was after these arrangements had been made, that the 
Laird of St. Ronan’s suddenly entered Meiklewham’s private 
apartment with looks of exultation. The worthy scribe turned 
his spectacled nose toward his patron, and holding in one 
hand the bunch of papers which he had just been perusing, 
and in the other the tape with which he was about to tie them 
up again, suspended that operation to await with open eyes and 
ears the communication of Mowbray. 

“ I have dope him ! ” he said, exultingly, yet in a tone of 
voice lowered almost to a whisper ; “ capoted his lordship for 
this bout — doubled my capital, Mick, and something more. — 
Hush, don’t interrupt me — we must think of Clara now — she 
must share the sunshine, should it prove but a blink before a 
storm. — You know, Mick, these two d — d women. Lady Pene- 
lope and the Sinks, have settled that they will have something 
like a bal par^ on this occasion, a sort of theatrical exhibition, 
and that those who like it shall be dressed in character. — I 
know their meaning — they think Clara has no dress fit for such 
foolery, and so they hope to eclipse her; Lady Pen, with her 
old-fashioned ill-set diamonds, and my Lady Sinks, with the 
new-fashioned finery which she swopt her character for. Sut 

Clara shan’t be borne down so, by ! I got that affected 

slut. Lady Sinks’s maid, to tell me what her mistress had set 
her mind on, and she is to wear a Grecian habit, forsooth, like 
one of Will Allan’s Eastern subjects. — Sut here’s the rub — 
there is only one shawl for sale in PMinburgh that is worth 
showing off in, and that is at the Gallery of Fashion. — Now, 
Mick, my friend, that shawl must be had for Clara, Nvith the 
other trankums of muslin, and lace, and so forth, which you 
will find marked in the paper there. — Send instantly and secure 
it, for, as Lady Sinks writes by to-morrow’s post, your order 
can go by to-night’s mail — There is a note for ^^loo.” 

From a mechanical habit of never refusing anything, Meikle- 
wham readily took the note, but having looked at it through 
his spectacles, he continued to hold it in his hand as he remon- 
strated with his patron. — “This is a’ very kindly meant, St. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


178 

Ronan’s — ver}^ kindly meant; and I wad be the last to say that 
Miss Clara does not merit respect and kindness at your hand ; 
but I doubt mickle if she wad care a bodle for thae braw 
things. Ve ken yoursell, she seldom alters her fashions. Od, 
she thinks her riding-habit dress eneugh forony company; and 
if you were ganging by good looks, so it is — if she had a 
thought mair color, poor dear.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mowbray, impatiently, “ let me alone to 
reconcile a woman and a fine dress.” 

“ To be sure, ye ken best,” said the writer ; “ but, after a’, 
now, wad it no be better to lay by this hundred pound in Tam 
Turnpenny’s, in case the young lady should want it afterhand, 
just for a sair foot ? ” 

“ You are a fool, Mick ; what signifies healing a sore foot 
when there will be a broken heart in the case ? — No, no — get 
the things as I desire you — we will blaze them down for one 
day at least ; perhaps it will be the beginning of a proper 
dash.” ^ 

“ Weel, weel, I wish it may be so,” answered Meiklewham ; 
“ but this young Earl — hae ye found the weak point i’ — Can ye 
get a decerniture against him, with expenses ? — that is the 
question.” 

“ I wish I could answer it,” said Mowbray thoughtfully. — 
“ Confound the fellow — he is a cut above me in rank and in 
society too— belongs to the great clubs, and is in with the Super- 
latives and Inaccessibles, and all that sort of folk. — My train- 
ing has been a peg lower — but, hang it, there are better 
dogs bred in the kennel than in the parlor. I am up to him, I 
think — at least I will soon know, Mick, whether I am or no, 
and that is always one comfort. Never mind — do you execute 
my commission, and take care you name no names — I must 
save my little Abigail’s reputation.” 

They parted, Meiklewham to execute his patron’s com- 
mission — his patron to bring to the test those hopes, the 
uncertainty of which he could not disguise from his own 
sagacity. 

Trusting to the continuance of his run of luck, Mowbray 
resolved to bring affairs to a crisis that same evening. Every- 
thing seemed in the outset to favor his purpose. They had 
dined together in I.ord Etherington’s apartments — his state of 
health interfered with the circulation of the bottle, and a drizzly 
autumnal evening rendered walking disagreeable, even had 
they gone no further than the private stable where Lord Ether- 
ington’s horses were kept, under the care of a groom of superior 
skill. Cards were naturally, almost necessarily, resorted to as 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


179 

the only alternative for helping away the evening, and piquet 
was, as formerly, chosen for the game. 

Lord Etherington seemed at first indolently careless and 
indifferent about his play, suffering advantages to escape him, 
of which, in a more attentive state of mind, he could not have 
failed to avail himself. Mowbray upbraided him with his in- 
attention, and proposed a deeper stake, in order to interest 
him. The young nobleman complied ; and in the course of a 
few hands, the gamesters became both deeply engaged in watch- 
ing and profiting by the changes of fortune. These were so 
many, so varied, and so unexpected, that the very souls of the 
players seemed at length centred iu the event of the struggle ; 
and, by dint of doubling stakes, the accumulated sum of a 
thousand pounds and upward, upon each side, came to be 
staked in the issue of the game. — So large a risk included all 
those funds which Mowbray commanded by his sister’s kind- 
ness, and nearly all his previous winnings, so to him the alter- 
native was victory or ruin. He could not hide his agitation, 
however desirous to do so. He drank wine to supply himself 
with courage — he drank water to cool his agitation ; and at 
length bent himself to play with as much care and attention as 
he felt himself enabled to command. 

In the first part of the game their luck appeared tolerably 
equal, and the play of both befitting gamesters who had dared 
to place such a sum on the cast. But, as it drew toward a con- 
clusion, fortune altogether deserted him who stood most in 
need of her favor, and Mowbray, with silent despair, saw his 
fate depend on a single trick, and that with every odds against 
him, for Lord Etherington was elder hand. But how can for- 
tune’s favor secure any one who is not true to himself — By an 
infraction of the laws of the game, which could only have been 
expected from the veriest bungler that ever touched a card. 
Lord Etherington called a point without showing it, and, by the 
ordinary rule, Mowbray was entitled to count his own — and in 
the course of that and the next hand, gained the game and 
swept the stakes. Lord Etherington showed chagrin and dis- 
pleasure, and seemed to think that the rigor of the game had 
been more insisted upon than in courtesy it ought to have been, 
when men were playing for so small a stake. Mowbray did not 
understand this logic. A thousand pounds, he said, were in 
his eyes no nutshell ; the rules of piquet were insisted on by 
all but boys and women ; and, for his part, he had rather not 
play at all than not play the game. 

“ So it would seem, my dear Mowbray,’^ said the Earl ; “ for, 
on my soul, I never saw so disconsolate a visage as thine dur- 


l8o ST. RONAN^S WELL, 

ing that unlucky game — it withdrew all my attention from my 
hand ; and I may safely say your rueful countenance has stood 
me in a thousand pounds. If I could transfer thy long visage 
to canvas, I should have both my revenge and my money ; for a 
correct resemblance would be worth not a penny less than the 
original has cost me.” 

“ You are welcome to your jest, my lord,” said Mowbray, 
it has been well paid for ; and I will serve you in ten thousand 
at the same rate. What say you .? ” he proceeded, taking up 
and shuffling the cards, “will you do yourself more justice in 
another game ? — Revenge, they say, is sweet.” 

“ I have no appetite for it this evening,” said the Earl 
gravely; “if I had, Mowbray, you might come by the worse. I 
do not always call a point without showing it.” 

“ Your lordship is out of humor with yourself for a blunder 
that might happen to any man — it was as much my good luck 
as a good hand would have been, and so Fortune be praised.” 

“ But what if with this Fortune had nought to do } ” replied 
Lord Etherington. — “ What if, sitting down with an honest 
fellow and a friend like yourself, Mowbray, a man should rather 
choose to lose his own money, which he could afford, than to 
win what it might distress his friend to part with .«* ” 

“ Supposing a case so far out of supposition, my lord,” 
answered Mowbray, who felt the question ticklish — “ for, with 
submission, the allegation is easily made, and is totally incapable 
of proof — I should say, no one had a right to think for me in 
such a particular, or to suppose that I played for a higher stake 
than was convenient.” 

“ And thus your friend, poor devil,” replied Lord Ethering- 
ton, “ would lose his money, and run the risk of a quarrel into 
the boot 1 — We will try it another way — Suppose this good- 
humored and simple-minded gamester had a favor of the deepest 
import to ask of his friend, and judged it better to prefer 
his request to a winner than to a loser ? ” 

“ If this applies to me, my lord,” replied Mowbray, “ it is 
necessary I should learn how I can oblige your lordship.” 

“ That is a word soon spoken, but so difficult to be recalled, 
that I am almost tempted to pause — but yet it must be said. — 
Mowbray, you have a sister.” 

Mowbray started. — “ I have indeed a sister, my lord ; but I 
can conceive no case in which her name can enter with propriety 
into our present discussion.” 

“ Again in the menacing mood ! ” said Lord Etherington, 
in his former tone ; “ now here is a pretty fellow — he would first 


ST. RONAN'\S WELL. l8l 

cut my throat for having' won a thousand pounds from me, and 
then for offering to make his sister a countess ! ” 

“ A countess, my lord ? ” said Mowbray ; “ you are but jesting 
— you have never even seen Clara Mowbray.” 

“ Perhaps not — but what then ? — I may have seen her 
picture, as i\iff says in the Critic, or fallen in love with her from 
rumor — or, to save further suppositions, as I see they render 
you impatient, I may be satisfied with knowing that she is a 
beautiful and accomplished young lady, with a large fortune.” 

“ What fortune do you mean, my lord ? ” said Mowbray, 
recollecting with alarm some claims which, according to 
Meiklewham’s view of the subject, his sister might form upon 
his property. — “ What estate ?— there is nothing belongs to our 
family save these lands of St. Ronan’s, or what is left of them ; 
and of these I am, my lord, an undoubted heir of entail in posses- 
sion.” 

“ Be it so,” said the Earl, “ for I have no claim on your 
mountain realms here, which are, doubtless, 

‘ renovvn’d of old 

For knights, and squires, and barons bold ; ’ 


my views respect a much richer, though less romantic domain 
in a large manor, hight Nettlewood. House old, but standing 
—the midst of such glorious oaks — three thousand acres of 
land, arable, pasture, and woodland, exclusive of the two closes 
occupied by Widow Hodge and Goodman Trampclod — manorial 
rights — mines and minerals — and the devil knows how many 
good things beside, all lying in the vale of Bever.” 

“ And what has my sister to do with all this t ” asked Mow- 
bray in great surprise 

‘‘ Nothing ; but that it belongs to her when she becomes 
Countess of Etherington.” 

“ It is, then, your lordship’s property already } ” 

“ No, by Jove ! nor can it, unless your sister honors me with 
her approbation of my suit,” replied the Earl. 

“ This is a sorer puzzle than one of Lady Penelope’s charades, 
my lord,” said Mr. Mowbray ; “ I must call in the assistance of 
the Reverend Mr. Chatterly ! ” 

“ You shall not need,” said Lord Etherington ; “ I will give 
you the key, but listen to me with patience. — You know that 
we nobles of England, less jealous of our sixteen quarters than 
those on the Continent, do not take scorn to line our decayed 
^rmines with a little cloth of gold from the city ; and my grand- 
father was lucky enough to get a wealthy wife, with a halting 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


182 

pedigree, — rather a singular circumstance, considering that her 
father was a countryman of yours. She had a brother, how- 
ever, still more wealthy than herself, and who increased his 
fortune by continuing to carry on the trade which had first en- 
riched his family. At length he summed up his books, washed 
his hands of commerce, and retired to Nettlewood, to become a 
gentleman ; and here my much respected grand-uncle was seized 
with the rage of making himself a man of consequence. He 
tried what marrying a woman of family would do ; but he soon 
found that, whatever advantage his family might derive from his 
doing so, his own condition was but little illustrated. He next 
resolved to become a man of family himself. His father had 
left Scotland when verv young, and bore, I blush to say, the 
vulgar name of Scrogie. This hapless dissyllable my uncle 
carried in person to the herald cfFice in Scotland ; but neither 
Lyon, nor March mont, nor Islay, nor Snowdon, neither herald 
nor pursuivant, would patronize Scrogie. — Scrogie ! there could 
nothing be made out of it — so that my worthy relative had 
recourse to the surer side of the house, and began to found his 
dignity on his mother’s name of Mowbray. In this he was much 
more successful, and I believe some sly fellow stole for him a 
slip from your own family tree, Mr. Mowbray of St. Renan’s, 
which, I dare say, you have never missed. At anyrate, for his 
arge?if and or, he got a handsome piece of parchment, blazoned 
with a white lion for Mowbray, to be borne quarterly, with three 
stunted or scrog-bushes for Scrogie, and became thenceforth 
Mr. Scrogie Mowbray, or rather, as he subscribed himself, 
Reginald (his former Christian name was Ronald) S. Mowbray. 
He had a son who most undutifully laughed at all this, refused 
the honors of the high name of Mowbray, and insisted on 
retaining his father’s original appellative of Scrogie, to the 
great annoyance of his said father’s ears, and damage of his' 
temper.” 

“ Why, faith, betwixt the two,” said Mowbray, “ I own I 
should have preferred my own name, and I think the old gentle- 
man’s taste rather better than the young one’s.” 

“True; but both wilful, absurd originals, with a happy 
obstinacy of temper, whether derived from Mowbray or Scrogie, 
I know not, but which led them so often into opposition, that 
the offended father, Reginald S. Mowbray, turned his recusant 
son, Scrogie, fairly out of doors ; and the fellow would have 
paid for his plebeian spirit with a vengeance, had he not found 
refuge with a surviving partner of the original Scrogie of all, 
who still carried on the lucrative branch of traftic by which the 
family had been first enriched. I mention these particulars to 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 183 

account, in so far as I can, for the singular predicament in which 
I now find myself placed.” 

“ Proceed, my lord,” said Mr. Mowbray ; “ there is no deny- 
ing the singularity of your story, and I presume you are quite 
serious in giving me such an extraordinary detail.” 

“ Entirely so, upon my honor — and a most serious matter it 
is, you will presently find. When my worthy uncle, Mr. S. 
Mowbray (for 1 will not call him Scrogie even in the grave), 
paid his debts to nature, everybody concluded he would be 
found to have disinherited his son, the unfilial Scrogie, and so 
far everybody was right — But it was also generally believed that 
he would settle the estate on my father, Lord Etherington, the 
son of his sister, and therein every one was wrong. For my 
excellent grand-uncle had pondered with himself, that the 
favored name of Mowbray would take no advantage, and attain 
no additional elevation, if his estate of Nettlewood (otherwise 
called Mowbray Park) should descend to our family without any 
condition ; and with the assistance of a sharp attorney, he 
settled it on me, then a schoolboy, on conditioji that I should, 
before obtaining the age of twenty-five complete, take unto my- 
self in holy wedlock a young lady of good fame, of the name of 
Mowbray, and, by preference, of the house of St. Ronan’s, 
should a damsel of that house exist. — Now my riddle is read.” 

“ And a very extraordinary one it is,” replied Mowbray, 
thoughtfully. 

“ Confess the truth,” said Lord Etherington, laying his hand 
on his shoulder ; “ you think the story will bear a grain of a 
scruple of doubt, if not a whole scruple itself ? ” 

“At least, my lord,” answered Mowbray, “ your lordship 
will allow, that, being Miss Mowbray’s only near relation, and 
sole guardian, I may, without offence, pause upon a suit for her 
hand, made under such odd circumstances.” 

“ If you have the least doubt either respecting my rank or 
fortune, ! can give, of course, the most satisfactory references,” 
s'ftid the Earl of Etherington. 

“ That I can easily believe, my lord,” said Mowbray ; “ nor 
do I in the least fear deception, where detection would be so 
easv. Your lordship’s proceedings toward me, too ” (with a 
conscious glance at the bills he still held in his hand), “ have, 
I admit, been such as to intimate some such deep cause of 
interest as you have been pleased to state. But it seems strange 
that your lordship should have permitted years to glide away, 
without so much as inquiring after the young lady, who, I 
believe, is the only person qualified, as your grand-uncle’s will 
requires, with whom you can form an alliance. It appears to 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 


184 

me, that long before now, this matter ought to have been 
investigated ; and that, even now, it would have been more 
natural and more decorous to have at least seen my sister 
before proposing for her hand.’’ 

“ On the first point, my dear Mowbray,” said Lord Ethering- 
ton, “ I am free to own to you, that, without meaning your 
sister the least affront, I would have got rid of this clause if I 
could ; for every man would fain choose a wife for himself, and 
I feel in no hurry to marry at all. But the rogue-lawyers, after 
taking fees, and keeping me in hand for years, have at length 
roundly told me the clause must be complied with, or Nettle- 
wood must have another master. So I thought it best to come 
down here in person in order to address the fair lady ; but as 
accident has hitherto prevented my seeing her, and as I found 
in her brother a man who understands the world, I hope you 
li'ill not think the worse of me, that I have endeavored in the 
outset to make you my friend. Truth is, I shall be twenty-five 
in the course of a month ; and without your favor, and the 
opportunities which only you can afford me, that seems a short 
time to woo and win a lady of Miss Mowbray’s merit.” 

“ And what is the alternative if you do not form this pro- 
posed alliance, my lord "i ” said Mowbray. 

“The bequest of my grand-uncle lapses,” said the Earl, 
“ and fair Nettlewood, with its old house, and older oaks, 
manorial rights. Hedge Trampclod, and all, devolves on a 
certain cousin german of mine, whom Heaven of his mercy 
confound ! ” 

“ You have left yourself little time to prevent such an event, 
my lord,” said Mowbray; “but things being as I now see them, 
you shall have what interest I can give you in the affair. — We 
must stand, however, on more equal terms, my lord — I will con- 
descend so far as to allow it w'ould have been inconvenient for 
me at this moment to have lost that game, but I cannot in the 
circumstances think of acting as if I had fairly w'on it. We 
must draw stakes, my lord.” r 

“ Not a w'ord of that, if you really mean me kindly, my dear 
Mow'bray. The blunder w^as a real one, for I w^as indeed think- 
ing, as you may suppose, on other things than the showing my 
point — All was fairly lost and won. — I hope I shall have oppor- 
tunities of offering real services, w'hich may perhaps give me 
some right to your partial regard — at present we are on equal 
footing on all sides — perfectly so.” 

“ If your lordship thinks so,” said Mowbray — and then 
passing rapidly to what he felt he could say with more confi- 
dence — “ Indeed, at any rate, no personal obligation to myself 


ST. RONAN\^ WELL. 185 

could prevent my doing my full duty as guardian to my 
sister.” 

“Unquestionably, I desire nothing else,” replied the Earl 
of Etherington. 

“ I must therefore understand that your lordship is quite 
serious in your proposal ; and that it is not to be withdrawn, 
even if,- upon acquaintance with Miss Mowbray, you should not 
perhaps think her so deserving of your lordship’s attentions as 
report may have spoken her.” 

“ Mr. Mowbray,” replied the Earl, “ the treaty between you 
and me shall be as definite as if I were a sovereign prince, 
demanding in marriage the sister of a neighboring monarch, 
whom, according to royal etiquette, he neither has seen nor 
could see. I have been quite frank with you, and I have stated 
to you that my present motives for entering upon negotiation 
are not personal, but territorial ; when I know Miss Mowbray, 
I have no doubt they will be otherwise. I have heard she 1 • 
beautiful.” 

“ Something of the palest, my lord,” answered Mowbray 

“A fine complexion is the first attraction which is lost in 
the world of fashion, and that which it is easiest to replace.” 

“ Dispositions, my lord, may differ,” said Mowbray, “ with- 
out faults on either side. I presume your lordship has inquired 
into my sister’s. She is amiable, accomplished, sensible, and 
high-spirited ; but yet ” 

“ I understand you, Mr. Mowbray, and will spare you the 
pain of speaking out. I have heard Miss Mowbray is in some 
respects — particular ; to use a broader word — a little whimsi- 
cal. — No matter. She will have the less to learn when she 
becomes a countess, and a woman of fashion.” 

“Are ycu serious, my lord said Mowbray. 

“ !i .am— and I will speak my mind still more plainly. I 
have a good temper, and excellent spirits, and can endure a 
good deal of singularity in those I live with. I have no doubt 
your sister and I will live happily together — But in case it 
should prove otherwise, arrangements may be made previously, 
which will enable us in certain circumstances to live happily 
apart. My own estate is large, and Nettlewood will bear 
dividing.” 

“Nay, then,” said Mowbray, “ I have little more to say 
— nothing indeed remains for inquiry, so far as your lord- 
ship is concerned. But my sister must have free liberty of 
choice — so far as I am concerned, your lordship’s suit has my 
interest.” 

“ And I trust we may consider it as a done thing } ” 


186 


ST. ROMANES WELL, 


“ With Clara’s approbation — certainly,” answered Mowbray. 

“ I trust there is no chance of personal repugnance on the 
young lady’s part ? ” said the young peer. 

“ I anticipate nothing of the kind, iny lord,” answered Mow- 
bray, “ as I presume there is no reason for any ; but young 
ladies will be capricious, and if Clara, after I have done and 
said all that a brother ought to do, should remain repugnant, 
there is a point in the exertion of my influence which it would 
be cruelty to pass.” 

The Earl of Etherington walked a turn through the apart- 
ment, then paused, and said in a grave and doubtful tone, “ In 
the meanwhile, I am bound, and the young lady is free, Mow- 
bray. Is this quite fair ? ” 

“ It is what happens in every case, my lord, where a gentle- 
man proposes for a lady,” answered Mowbray; “he must re- 
main, of course, bound by his offer, until, within a reasonable 
time, it is accepted or rejected. It is not my fault that your 
lordship has declared your wishes to me, before ascertaining 
Clara’s inclination. But while as yet the matter is between 
ourselves — I make you welcome to draw back if you think 
proper. Clara Mowbray needs not push for a catch-match.” 

“ Nor do I desire,” said the young nobleman, “any time to 
reconsider the resolution which I have confided to you. I am 
not in the least fearful that I shall change my mind on seeing 
your sister, and 1 am ready to stand by the proposal which I 
have made to you. — If, however, you feel so extremely deli- 
cately on my account,” he continued, “ I can see and even con- 
verse with Miss Mowbray at this fete of yours, without the ne- 
cessity of being at all presented to her — The character which I 
have assumed in a manner obliges me to wear a mask.” • 

“ Certainly,” said the L^ird of St. Ronan’s, “ and I am 
glad, for both our sakes, your lordship thinks of taking a little 
law upon this occasion,” 

“ I shall profit nothing by it,” said the Earl ; “ my doom is 
fixed before I start — but if this mode of managing the matter 
will save your conscience, I have no objection to it — it cannot 
consume much time, which is what I have to look to.” 

They then shook hands and parted, without any further dis- 
course which could interest the reader. 

Mowbray was glad to find himself alone, in order to think 
over what had happened, and to ascertain the state of his own 
mind, which at present was puzzling even to himself. He 
could not but feel that much greater advantages of every kind 
might accrue to himself and his family from the alliance of the 
wealthy young Earl, than could have been derived from any 


ST, RONAN‘*S WELL, 


187 

share of his spoils which he had proposed to gain by superior 
address in play, or greater skill on the turf. But his pride was 
hurt when he recollected that he had placed himself entirely in 
Lord Etherington’s power; and the escape from absolute ruin 
which he had made, solely by the sufferance of his opponent, 
had nothing in it consolatory to his wounded feelings. He 
was lowered in his own eyes, when he recollected how com- 
pletely the proposed victim of his ingenuity had seen through 
his schemes, and only abstained from baffling them entirely, 
because to do so suited best with his own. There was a shade 
of suspicion, too, which he could not entirely eradicate from 
his mind. — What occasion had this young nobleman to 
preface, by the voluntary loss of a brace of thousands, a pro- 
posal which must have been acceptable in itself, without any 
such sacrifice ? And why should he, after all, have been so 
eager to secure his accession to the proposed alliance, before 
he had ever seen the lady who was the object of it } However 
hurried for time, he might have waited the event at least of 
the entertainment at Shaws Castle, at which Clara was neces- 
sarily obliged to make her appearance. — Yet such conduct, 
however unusual, was equally inconsistent with any sinister im 
tentions ; since the sacrifice of a large sum of money, and the 
declaration of his views upon a portionless young lady of 
family, could scarcely be the preface to any unfair practice. 
So that, upon the whole, Mowbray settled, that what was un- 
common in the Earbs conduct arose from the hasty and eager 
disposition of a rich young Englishman, to whom money is of 
little consequence, and who is too headlong in pursuit of the 
favorite plan of the moment, to proceed in the most rational or 
most ordinary manner. If, however, there should prove any- 
thing further in the matter than he could at present discover, 
Mowbray promised himself that the utmost circumspection on 
his part could not fail to discover it, and that in full time to 
prevent any ill consequences to his sister or himself. 

Immersed in such cogitations, he avoided the inquisitive pres- 
ence of Mr. Meiklewham, who, as usual, had been watching for 
him to learn how matters were going on ; and although it was 
now late, he mounted his horse and rode hastily to Shaws Castle. 
On the way, he deliberated with himself whether to mention to 
his sister the application which had been made to him, in order 
to prepare her to receive the young Earl, as a suitor, favored 
with her brother’s approbation. “ But no, no, no ; ” such was 
the result of his contemplation. “ She might take it into her 
head that his thoughts were bent less upon having her for a 
countess, than on obtaining possession of his grand-uncle’s 


i88 


ST. RON-AAT^S WELL. 


estate. We must keep quiet,” concluded he, “ until her personal 
appearance and accomplishments may appear at least to have 
some influence upon his choice. We must say nothing till this 
blessed entertainment has been given and received.” 


CHAPTER NINETEENTPI. 

A LETTE 

Has he so long held out with me untired, 

And stops he now for breath ? — Well — Be it so.” 

Richard III. 

Mowbray had no sooner left the Earl’s apartment, than the 
latter commenced an epistle to a friend and associate, which we 
lay before the reader, as best calculated to illustrate the views 
and motives of the writer. It was addressed to Captain Jekyl 

of the regiment of Guards, at the Green Dragon, Harrogate, 

and was of the following tenor : — 

“ Dear Harry, 

“ I have expected you here these ten days past, anxiously as 
ever man was looked for ; and have now to charge your absence 
as high treason to your sworn allegiance. Surely you do not 
presume, like one of Napoleon’s new made monarchs, to grumble 
for independence, as if your greatness were of your own making, 
or as if 1 had picked you out of the whole of St. James’s coffee- 
house to hold my back-hand, for your sake, forsooth, not for my 
own ? Wherefore, lay aside all yOur own proper business, be it 
the pursuit of dowagers, or the plucking of pigeons, and instanlly 
repair to this place, where 1 may speedily want your assistance. 
— May want it, said I ? Why, most negligent of friends and 
allies, I luwe wanted it already, and that when it might have 
done me yeoman’s service. Know that I have had an affair 
since I came hither — have got hurt myself, and have nearly shot 
my friend ; and if I had, I might have been hanged for it, for 
want of Harry Jekyl to bear witness in my favor. I was so 
far on my road to this place, when, not choosing, for certain 
reasons, to pass through the old village, I struck by a footpath 
into the woods which separate it from the new Spa, leaving 
my carriage and people to go the carriage-way. I had not 
walked half-a-mile when I heard the footsteps of some one be- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


189 

hind, and looking round, what should I behold but the face in 
the world which I most cordially hate and abhor — I mean that 
which stands on the shoulders of my right trusty and well- 
beloved cousin and counselor, Saint Francis, He seemed as 
much confounded as I was at our unexpected meeting ; and it 
was a minute ere he found breath to demand what I did in 
Scotland, contrary to my promise, as he was ])leased to express 
it. I retaliated, and charged him with beinghere, in contradic- 
tion to his. He justified, and said he had only come down upon 
the express information that I was upon my road to St. Ronan’s. 
Now, Harry, how the devil should he have known this, hadst 
tjjou been quite faithful 1 for I am sure, to no ear but thine own 
did 1 breathe a whisper of my purpose. — Next, with the insolent 
assumption of superiority, which he founds on what he calls the 
rectitude of his purpose, he proposed we should both withdraw 
from a neighborhood into which we could bring nothing but 
wretchedness. — I have told you how difficult it is to cope with 
the calm and resolute manner that the devil gifts him with on 
such occasions ; but I was determined he should not carry the 
day this time. I saw no chance for it, however, but to put my- 
;elf into a towering passion, which, thank Heaven, I can always 
\o on short notice. I charged him with having imposed for- 
merly on my youth, and made himself judge of my rights ; and 
I accompanied my defiance with the strongest terms of irony 
and contempt, as well as with demand of instant satisfaction. 
I had my traveling pistols with me (ef pour oauso), and, to my 
surprise, my gentleman was equally provided. For fair play’s 
sake 1 made him take one of my pistols — right Kuchenritters — ■ 
a brace of balls in each, but that circumstance I forgot. I would 
fain have argued the matter a little longer ; but 1 thought at 
the time, and think still, that the best arguments which he and 
I can exchange must come from the point of the sword, or the 
muzzle of the pistol. — We fired nearly together, and I think 
both dropped — I am sure I did, but recovered in a minute, with 
a damaged arm and a scratch on the temple— it was the last 
which stunned me — so much for double-loaded pistols. ^ly 
friend was invisible, and I had nothing for it but to walk to the 
Spa, bleeding all the way like a calf, and tell a raw-head-and- 
bloody-bone story about a footpad, which, but for my earldom, 
and my gory locks, no living soul would have believed. 

“ Shortly after, when I had been installed in a sick-room, I 
had the mortification to learn that my own impatience had 
brought all this mischief upon me, at a moment when I had 
every chance of getting rid of my friend without trouble, had 
I but let him go on his own errand ; for it seems he had an 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


190 

appointment that morning with a booby Baronet, who is said 
to be a bullet-slitter, and would perhaps have rid me of Saint 
Francis without any trouble or risk on my part. Meantime, his 
non-appearance at this rendezvous has placed Master Francis 
Tyrrel, as he chooses to call himself, in the worst odor possi- 
ble with the gentry at the Spring, who have denounced him as 
a coward and no gentleman. What to think of the business 
myself, I know not ; and I much want your assistance to see 
what can have become of this fellow, who, like a spectre of ill 
omen, has so often thwarted and baffled my best plans. My 
own confinement renders me inactive, though my wound is fast 
healing. Dead he cannot be ; for had he been mortally wound- 
ed, we should have heard of him somewhere or other — hecoufd 
not have vanished from the earth like a bubble of the elements. 
Well and sound he cannot be ; for, besides that I am sure I 
saw him stagger and drop, firing his pistol as befell, I know him 
well enough to swear, that had he not been severely wounded, 
he would have first pestered me with his accursed presence and 
assistance, and then walked forward with his usual composure 
to settle matters with Sir Bingo Binks. No — no — Saint Francis 
is none of those who leave such jobs half finished — it is but do- 
ing him justice to say he has the devil’s courage to back his 
own deliberate impertinence. But then, if wounded severely, 
he must be still in this neighborhood, and probably in conceal- 
ment — this is what I must discover, and I want your assistance 
in my inquiries among the natives. — Haste hither, Harry, as 
ever you look for good at my hand. 

“ A good player, Harry, always studies to make the best of 
bad cards — and so I have endeavored to turn my wound to 
some account ; and it has given me the opportunity to secure 
Monsieur le Frere in my interests. You may say, very truly, 
that it is of consequence to me to know the character of this 
new actor on the disordered scene of my adventures. — Know, 
then, he is that most incongruous of all monsters — a Scotch 
Buck — how far from being buck of the season you may easily 
judge. Every point of national character is opposed to the pre- 
tensions of this luckless race, when they attempt to take on them 
a personage which is assumed with so much facility by their 
brethren of the Isle of Saints. They are a shrewd people, in- 
deed, but so destitute of ease, grace, pliability of manners, and 
insinuation of address, that they eternally seem to suffer actual 
misery in their attempts to look gay and careless. Then their 
pride heads them back at one turn, their poverty at another, their 
pedantry at a third, their mativaise honte, at a fourth ; and with 
so many obstacles to make them bolt off the course, it is posi- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


191 

tively impossible they should win the plate. No, Harry, it is 
the grave folk in Old England who have to fear a Caledonian 
invasion — they will make no conquests in the world of fashion. 
Excellent bankers the Scots may be, for they are eternaly cal- 
culating how to add interest to principal ; — good soldiers, for 
they are, if not such heroes as they would be thought, as brave, 
I suppose, as their neighbors, and much more amenable to dis- 
cipline; — lawyers they are born ; indeed every country gentle- 
man is bred one, and their patient and crafty disposition enables 
them, in other lines, to submit to hardships which other natives 
could not bear, and avail themselves of advantages which others 
would let pass under their noses unavailingly. But assuredly 
Heaven did not form the Caledonian for the gay world ; and 
his efforts at ease, grace and ga3’ety, resemble only the clumsy 
gambols of the ass in the fable. Yet the Scot has his sphere too 
(in his own country only), where the character which he assumes 
is allowed to pass current. This Mowbray, now — this brother- 
in-law of mine — might do pretty well at a Northern Meeting, or 
the Leith races, where he could give five minutes to the sport 
of the day, and the next half-hour to country politics, or to 
farming; but it is scarce necessary to tell you, Harrv, that 
this half fellowship will not pass on the better side of the 
Tweed. 

“ Yet, for all I have told you, this trout was not easily 
tickled ; nor should I have made much of him, had he not, in 
the plenitude of his northern conceit, entertained that notion 
of my being a good subject of plunder, which you had contrived 
(blessing on your contriving brain !) to insinuate into him by 
means of Wolverine. He commenced this hopeful experiment, 
and, as you must have anticipated, caught a d'artar with a 
vengeance. Of course, I used my victory only so far as to 
secure his interest in accomplishing: my principal object ; and 
yet I could see my gentleman’s pride was so much injured in 
the course of the negotiation, that not all the advantages which 
the match offered to his damned family, were aide entirely to 
subdue the chagrin arising from his defeat. He did gulp it 
down, though, and we are friends and allies for the preseiU at 
least — not so cordially so, however, as to induce me to trust 
him with the whole of the strangely complicated tale. The 
circumstance of the will it was necessary to communicate, as 
affording a sufficiently strong reason for urging my suit ; and 
this partial disclosure enabled me for the present to dispense 
with further confidence. 

“ You will observe, that I stand by no means secure ; and 
besides the chance of my cousin’s re-appearance — a certain 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


192 

event, unless he is worse than I dare hope for — I have perhaps 
to expect the fantastic repugnance of Clara herself, or some 
sulky freak on her brother’s part. — In a word — and let it be 
such a one as conjurors raise the devil with — Harry Jekyl, I 
wa7it you. 

“ As well knowing the nature of my friend, I can assure you 
that his own interest, as well as mine, may be advanced by his 
coming hither on duty. Here is a blockhead whom I already 
mentioned, Sir Bingo Binks, with whom something may be done 
worth while, though scarce worth mme. The Baronet is a 
perfect buzzard, and when I came here he was under Mowbray’s 
training. — But the awkward Scot had plucked half-a-dozen pen- 
feathers from his wing with so little precaution, that the Baronet 
has become frightened and shy, and is now in the act of rebelling 
against Mowbray, whom he both hates and fears — the least 
backing from a knowing hand like you, and the bird becomes 
your own, feathers and all. — Moreover, 

‘ by my life, 

This Bingo hath a mighty pretty wife.’ 

A lovely woman, Harry — rather plump, and above the middle 
size — quite your taste — a Juno in beauty, looking with such 
scorn on her husband, whom she despises and hates, and seem- 
ing, as if she could look so differently on any one whom she 
might like better, that, on my faith, ’twere sin not to give her 
occasion. If you please to venture your luck, either with the 
knight or the lady, you shall have fair play, and no interference 
— that is, provided you appear upon this summons ; for, other- 
wise, I may be so placed, that the affairs cf the knight and the 
lady may fall under my own immediate cognizance. And so, 
Harr 3 % if you wish to profit by these hints, you had best make 
haste, as well for your own concerns, as to assist me in mine. 

“Yours, Harry, as you behave yourself, 

“ Etherington.” 

Having finished this eloquent and instructive epistle, the 
young Earl demanded the attendance of his own valet, Solmes, 
whom he charged to put it into the post-office without delay, 
and with his own hand. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


193 


CHAPTER TWENTIETH. 

THEATRICALS. 

The play’s the thing. — Hamlet. 

The important day had now arrived, the arrangements for 
which had for some time occupied all the conversation and 
thoughts of the good company at the well of St. Ronan’s. To 
give it, at the same time, a degree of novelty and consequence. 
Lady Penelope Penfeather had long since suggested to Mr. 
Mowbray, that the more gifted and accomplished part of the 
guests might contribute to furnish out entertainment for the 
rest, by acting a few scenes of some popular drama ; an accom- 
plishment in which her self-conceit assured her that she was 
peculiarly qualified to excel. Mr. Mowbray, who seemed on this 
occasion to have thrown the reins entirely into her ladyship’s 
hands, made no objection to the plan which she proposed, 
excepting that the old-fashioned hedges and walks of the garden 
at Shaws Castle must necessarily serve for stage and scenery, as 
there was no time to fit up the old hall for the exhibition of the 
proposed theatricals.* But upon inquiry among the company, 
this plan was wrecked upon the ordi-nary shelve, to wit, the 
difficulty of finding performers who would consent to assume 
the lower characters of the drama. For the first parts there 
were candidates more than enough ; but most of these were 
greatly too high-spirited to play the fool, except they were per- 
mitted to top the part. Then amongst the few unambitious 
underlings, who could be coaxed or cajoled to undertake subor- 
dinate characters, there were so many bad memories, and short 
memories, and treacherous memories, that at length the plan 
was resigned in despair. 

A substitute proposed by Lady Penelope was next considered. 
It was^ proposed to act what the Italians call a Comedy of Char- 
acter ; that is, not an exact drama, in which the actors deliver 
what is set down for them by the author ; but one in which, the 

* At Kilrucldery, the noble seat of Lord Meath, in the county of Wick- 
low there is a situation for private theatrical exhibitions in the open air, 
planted out with the evergreens which arsie there in the most luxuriant 
magnificence. It has a wild and romantic effect, reminding one of the 
scene in which Bottom rehearsed his pageant, with a green plot for a stage, 
and a hawthorn break for a tiring-room. 


ST. ROATAN^S WELL. 


194 

plot having been previously fixed upon, and a few striking 
scenes adjusted, the actors are expected to supply the dialogue 
extempore, or, as Petruchio says, from their mother wit. Phis 
is an amusement which affords much entertainment in Italy, 
particularly in the state of Venice, where the characters of theif 
drama have been long since all previously fixed, and are handed 
down by tradition ; and this species of drama, though rather 
belonging to the mask than the theatre, is distinguished by the 
name of Commedia dell’ Arte.f But the shame-faced character 
of Britons is still more alien from a species of display, where 
there is a constant and extemporaneous demand for wit, or the 
sort of ready small-talk which supplies its place, than from the 
regular exhibitions of the drama, where the author, standing 
responsible for language and sentiment, leaves to the person- 
tors of the scenes only the trouble of finding enunciation and 
action. 

But the ardent and active spirit of Lady Penelope, still 
athirst after novelty, though baffled in her two first projects, 
brought forward a third, in which she was more successful. 
This was the proposal to combine a certain number, at least, 
of the guests, properly dressed for the occasion, as representing 
some well-known historical or dramatic characters, in a group, 
having reference to history, or to a scene of the drama. In 
this representation, which may be called playing a picture, action, 
even pantomimical action, was not expected ; and all that was 
required of the performers was to throw themselves into such 
a group as might express a marked and striking point of an 
easily remembered scene, but where the actors are at a pause, 
and without either speech or motion. In this species of rep- 
resentation there was no tax, either on the invention or memory 
of those who might undertake parts ; and, what recommended 
it still further to the good company, there was no marked differ- 
ence betwixt the hero and heroine of the group, and the less 
distinguished characters by whom they were attended on the 
stage ; and every one who had confidence in a handsome shape 
and a becoming dress, might hope, though standing in not quite 
so broad and favorable a light as the principal personages, to 
draw, nevertheless, a considerable portion of attention and 
applause. This motion, therefore, that the company, or such 
of them as might choose to appear properly dressed for the 
occasion, should form themselves into one or more groups, 

t See Mr. William Stewart Rose’s very interesting Letters from the 
North of Italy, Vol. i. Letter XXX., where this curious subject is treated 
with the information and precision which distinguish that accomplished 
author. 


ST. RON’AN'^S WELL. 


195 

which might be renewed and varied as often as they pleased, 
was hailed and accepted as a bright idea, which assigned to 
every one a share of the importance attached to its probable 
success. 

Mowbray, on his side, promised to contrive some arrange- 
ment which should separate the actors in this mute drama from 
the spectators, and enable the former to vary the amusement 
by withdrawing themselves from the scene, and again appear- 
ing upon it under a different and new combination. This plan 
of exhibition, where fine clothes and affected attitudes supplied 
all draughts upon fancy or talent, was highly agreeable to most 
of the ladies present ; and even Lady Binks, whose discontent 
seemed proof against every effort that could be proposed to 
soothe it, acquiesced in the project, with perfect indifference 
indeed, but with something less of sullenness than usual. 

It now only remained to rummage the circulating library, 
for some piece of. sufficient celebrity to command attention, 
and which should be at the same time suited to the execution 
of their project. pjelTs British Theatre, Miller’s Modern and 
Ancient Drama, and about twenty old volumes, in which stray 
tragedies and comedies were associated, like the passengers in a 
mail-coach, without the least attempt at selection or arrangement, 
were all examined in the course of their researches. But Lady 
Penelope declared loftily and decidedly for Shakespeare, as the 
author whose immortal works were fresh in everyone’s recollec- 
tion. Shakespeare was. therefore chosen, and from his works 
the Midsummer Night’s Drearh was selected, as the play which 
afforded the greatest variety of characters, and most scope of 
course for the intended representation. An active competition 
presently occurred among the greater part of the company, for 
such copies of the Midsummer Night’s Dream, or the volume of 
Shakespeare containing it, as could be got in the neighborhood ; 
for, notwithstanding Lady Penelope’s declaration, that every one 
who could read, had Shakespeare’s plays by heart, it appeared 
that such of his dramas as have not kept possession of the stage 
were very little known at St. Ronan’s, save among those people 
who are emphatically called readers. 

The adjustment of the parts was the first subject of considera- 
tion, so soon as those who intended to assume characters had 
refreshed their recollection on the subject of the piece. Theseus 
was unanimously assigned to Mowbray, the giver of the enter- 
tainment, and therefore justly entitled to represent the Duke of 
Athens. The costume of an Amazonian crest and plume, a 
tucked-up vest, and a tight buskin of sky-blue silk, buckled 
with diamonds, reconciled Lady Binks to the part of Hippolyta. 


ST. TOATAJV’S WELL. 


•196 

The superior stature of Miss Mowbray to Lady Penelope made 
it necessary that the former should perform the part of Helena, 
and her ladyship rest contented with the shrewish character of 
Hermia. It was resolved to compliment the young Earl of 
Etherington with the part of Lysander, which, however, his 
Lordship declined, and, preferring comedy to tragedy, refused 
to appear in any other character than that of the magnanimous 
Bottom ; and he gave them such a humorous specimen of his 
quality in that part, that all were delighted at once with his 
condescension in assuming, and his skill in performing, the 
presenter of Pyramus. 

The part of Egeus was voted to Captain MacTurk, whose 
obstinacy in refusing to appear in any other than the full 
Highland garb, had nearly disconcerted the whole affair. At 
length this obstacle was got over, on the authority of Childe 
Harold, who remarks the similarity betwixt the Highland and 
Grecian costume ; * and the company, dispensing with the 
difference of color, voted the Captain’s variegated kilt, of the 
MacTurk tartan, to be the kirtle of a Grecian mountaineer, — 
Egeus to be an Arnout, and the Captain to be Egeus. Chat- 
terly and the painter, walking gentlemen by profession, agreed 
to walk through the parts of Demetrius and Lysander, the two 
Athenian lovers ; and Mr. Winterblossom, loath and lazy, after 
many excuses, was bribed by Lady Penelope, with an antique, 
or supposed antique cameo, to play the part of Philostratus, 
master of the revels, provided his gout would permit him to 
remain so long upon the turf, which was to be their stage. 

Muslin trowsers, adorned with spangles, a voluminous turban 
of silver gauze, and win^s of the same, together with an em- 
broidered slipper, converted at once Miss Digges into Oberon, 
the King of Shadows, whose sovereign gravity, however, was 
somewhat indifferently represented by the silly gayety of Miss 
in her Teens, and the uncontroled delight which she felt in her 
fine clothes. A younger sister represented Titania ; and two 
or three subordinate elves were selected, among families attend- 
ing the salutiferous fountain, who were easily persuaded to let 
their children figure in fine clothes at so juvenile an age, 
though they shook their heads at Miss Digges and her panta 
loons, and no less at the liberal display of Lady Binks’s right 

* “ The Arnaults, or Albanese,” says Lord Byron, “struck me by their 
resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner 
of living. Their very mountains seem Caledonian, but a milder climate. 
The kilt, though white, the spare, active form, their dialect Celtic in the 
sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven.” — N'otes to 
the Second Chapter of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 


ST. TOJVAJV'S WELL. 


197 

leg, with which the Amazonian garb gratified the public of St. 
Ronan’s. 

Dr. Quackleben was applied to to play Wall, by the assist- 
ance of such a wooden horse, or screen, as clothes are usually 
dried upon ; the old Attorney stood for Lion ; and the other 
characters of Bottom’s drama were easily found among the un- 
named frequenters of the Spring. Dressed rehearsals, and so 
forth, went merrily on — all voted there was a play fitted. 

But ev'en the Doctor’s eloquence could not press Mrs. 
Blower into the scheme, although she was particularly wanted 
to represent Thisbe. 

“'fruth is,” she replied, “ I dinna greatly like stage-plays 
John Blower, honest man, as sailors are aye for some spree or 
another, wad take me ance to see ane Mrs. Siddons — I thought 
we should hae been crushed to death before we gat in — a’ my 
things riven aff my back, forby the four lily-white shillings that 
it cost us — and then in came three frightsome carlines wi’ besoms, 
and they wad bewitch a sailor’s wife — I was lang eneugh there 
— and out I wad be, and out John Blower gat me, but wi’ nae 
sma’ fight and fend. — My Lady Penelope Penfitter, and the great 
folk, may just take it as they like ; but in my mind, Dr. Cackle- 
hen, it’s a mere blasphemy for folk to gar themselves look other- 
wise than their Maker made them ; and then the changing the 
name which was given them at baptism, is, I think, an awful 
falling away from our vows; and though Thisby, which I take 
to be Greek for Tibbie, may be a very good name, yet Margaret 
was I christened, and Margaret will I die.” 

“ You mistake the matter entirely, my dear Mrs. Blower,” 
said the Doctor there is nothing serious intended — a mere 
placebo — just a divertisement to cheer the spirits, and assist the 
effect of the waters — cheerfulness is a great promoter of health.” 

“ Dinna tell me o’ health, Dr. Kettlepin ! — Can it be for the 
puir body M^Durk’s health to major about in the tartans like a 
tobacconist’s sign in a frosty morning, wi’ his poor wizened 
houghs as blue as a blawart ? — weel I wot he is a humbling 
spectacle. Or can it gie ony body health or pjeasure either to 
see your ainsell. Doctor, ganging about wi’ a claise screen tied 
to your back, covered wi’ paper, and painted like a stane and 
lime wa’ } — I’ll gang to see nane of their vanities. Dr. Kittle- 
hen ; and if there is nae other decent body to take care o’ me, 
as I dinna like to sit a haill afternoon by mysell. I’ll e’en gae 
doun to Mr. Sowerbrowst the maltster’s — he is a pleasant sensible 
man, and a sponsible man in the world, and his sister’s a very 
decent woman.” 

“ Confound Sowerbrowst,” thought the Doctor ; “ if I had 


ST. TOJVAJV’S WELL. 


198 

guessed he was to come across me thus, he should not have 
got the better of his dyspepsy so early. — My dear Mrs. Blower,’* 
he continued, but aloud, “ it is a foolish affair enough, I must 
confess ; but every person of style and fashion at the Well has 
settled to attend this exhibition ; there has been nothing else 
talked of for this month through the whole country, and it will 
be a year before it is forgotten. And I would have you con- 
sider how ill it will look, my dear Mrs. Blower, to stay away — 
nobody will believe you had a card — no, not though you were 
to hang it round your neck like a label round a vial of tincture, 
Mrs. Blower.” 

“ If ye thought that., Doctor Kickherben,” said the widow, 
alarmed atthe idea of losing caste, “ I wad e’en gang to the 
show, like other folk ; sinful and shameful if it be, let them that 
make the sin bear the shame. But then I will put on nane of 
their Popish disguises — me that has lived in North Leith, baith 
wife and lass, for I shanna say howmony years, and has a char- 
acter to keep up baith with saint and sinner. — And then, wha’s 
to take care of me, since you are gaun to make a lime-and-stane 
wa’ of yoursell, Doctor Kickinben } ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Blower, if such is your determination, I will 
not make a wall of myself. Her ladyship must consider my 
profession — she must understand it is my function to look after 
my patients, in preference to all the stage-plays in the world — 
and to attend on a case like yours, Mrs. Blower, it is my duty 
to sacrifice, were it called for, the whole drama from Shakespeare 
to O’Keefe.” 

On hearing this magnanimous resolution, the widow’s heart 
was greatly cheered ; for, in fact, she might probably have con- 
sidered the Doctor’s perseverance in the plan, of which she had 
expressed such high disapprobation, as little less than a symptom 
of absolute defection from his allegiance. By an accommoda- 
tion, therefore, which suited both parties, it was settled that the 
Doctor should attend his loving widow to Shaws Castle, with- 
out mask or mantle ; and that the painted screen should be 
transferred from Quackleben’s back to the broad shoulders of a 
briefless barrister, well qualified for the part of Wall, since the 
composition of his skull might have rivaled in solidity the 
mortar and stone of the most approved builder. 

We must not pause to dilate upon the various labors of body 
and spirit which preceded the intervening space, betwixt the 
settlement of this gay scheme, and the time appointed to carry 
it into execution. We will not attempt to describe how the 
wealthy, by letter and by commissioners, urged their researches 
through the stores of the Gallery of Fashion for specimens of 


ST. ROMAN'S WELL. 


199 


Oriental finery — how they that were scant of diamonds supplied 
their place with paste and Bristol stones — how the country 
dealers were driven out of patience by the demand for goods of 
which they had never before heard the name — and, lastly, how 
the busy fingers of the more economical damsels twisted hand* 
kerchiefs into turbans, and converted petticoats into pantaloons, 
shaped and sewed, cut and clipped, and spoiled many a decent 
gown and petticoat, to produce something like a Grecian habit. 
Who can describe the wonders wrought by active needles and 
scissors, aided by thimbles and thread, upon silver gauze, and 
sprigged muslin ? or who can show how, if the fair nymphs of 
the Spring did not entirely succeed* in attaining the desired 
resemblance to heathen Greeks, they at least contrived to get 
rid of all similitude to sober Christians ? 

Neither is it necessary to dwell upon the various schemes 
of conveyance which were resorted to, in order to transfer the 
beau monde of the Spa to the scene of revelry at Shaws Castle. 
These were as various as the fortunes and pretensions of the 
owners ; from the lordly curricle, with its outriders, to the 
humble taxed cart, nay, untaxed cart, which conveyed the per- 
sonages of lesser rank. For the latter, indeed, the two post- 
chaises at the Inn seemed converted into hourly stages, so often 
did they come and go between the Hotel and the Castle — a glad 
day for the postilions, and a day of martyrdom for the poor 
post-horses ; so seldom is it that ' every department of any 
society, however constituted, can be injured or benefited by 
the same occurrence. 

Such, indeed, was the penury of vehicular conveyance, that 
applications were made in manner most humble, even to Meg 
Dods herself, entreating she would permit her old whiskey to 
ply (for such might have been the phrase) at St. Ronan’s Well, 
for that day only, and that upon good cause shown. But not 
for sordid lucre'would the undaunted spirit of Meg compound 
her feud with her neighbors of the detested Well. “ Her 
carriage,*’ she briefly replied, “ was engaged for her ain guest 
and the minister, and deil anither body’s fit should gang intill’t. 
Let every herring hing by its ain head.” And, accordingly, at 
the duly appointed hour, creaked forth the leathern conveni- 
ence, in which, carefully screened by the curtain from the gaze 
of the fry of the village, sat Nabob Touchwood, in the costume 
of an Indian merchant, or Shroff, as they are termed. The 
clergyman would not, perhaps, have been so punctual, had not 
a set of notes and messages from his friend at the Cleikum, 
ever following each other as thick as the papers which decorate 
the tail of a school-boy’s kite, kept him so continually on the 


200 


ST, TONAN^S WELL. 


alert from daybreak till noon, that Mr. Touchwood found him 
completely dressed ; and the whiskey was only delayed for about 
ten minutes before the door of the manse, a space employed 
by Mr. Cargill in searching for his spectacles, which at last 
were happily discovered upon his own nose. 

At length, seated by the side of his new friend, Mr. Cargill 
arrived safe at Shaws Castle, the gate of which mansion was 
surrounded by a screaming group of children, so extravagantly 
delighted at seeing the strange figures to whom each successive 
carriage gave birth, that even the stern brow and well-known 
voice of Johnny Tirlsneck, the beadle, though stationed in the 
court on express purpose, was not equal to the task of control- 
ing them. These noisy intruders, however, who, it was believed, 
were somewhat favored by Clara Mowbray, were excluded from 
the court which opened before the house, by a couple of grooms 
or helpers armed with their whips, and could only salute, with 
their shrill and wondering hailing, the various personages as 
they passed down a short avenue leading from the exterior 
gate. 

The Cleikum nabob and the minister were greeted with 
shouts not the least clamorous ; which the former merited by 
the ease with which he wore the white turban, and the latter, 
by the infrequency of his appearance in public ; and both, by 
the singular association of a decent clergyman of the Church 
of Scotland, in a dress more old-fashioned than could now be 
produced in the General Assembly, walking arm-in-arm, and 
seemingly in the most familiar terms, with a Parsee merchant. 
They stopped a moment at the gate of the courtyard to admire 
the front of the old mansion, which had been disturbed with so 
unusual a scene of gayety. 

Shaws Castle, though so named, presented no appearance of 
defence ; and the present edifice had never been designed for 
more than the accommodation of a peaceful family, having a low, 
heavy front, leaded with some of that meretricious ornament, 
which, uniting, or rather confounding, the Gothic and Grecian 
architecture, was much used during the reigns of James VI. of 
Scotland, and his unfortunate son. The court formed a small 
square, two sides of which were occupied by such buildings as 
were required for the family, and the third by the stables, the 
only part to which much attention had been paid, the present 
Mr. Mowbray having put them into excellent order. The fourth 
side of the square was shut up by a screen wall, through which 
a door opened to the avenue ; the whole being a kind of structure 
which may be still found on those old Scottish properties, where 
a rage to render their place Parkish, as was at one time the pre- 


Sr. ROJVAN^S WELL. 


201 


vailing phrase, has not induced the owners to pull down the ven- 
erable and sheltering appendages with which their wiser fathers 
had screened their mansion, and to lay the whole open to the 
keen north-east ; much after the fashion of a spinster of fifty, 
who chills herself to gratify the public by an exposure of her 
thin red elbows, and shriveled neck and bosom. 

A double door, thrown hospitably open on the present 
occasion, admitted the company into a dark and low hall, where 
Mowbray himself, wearing the under dress of Theseus, but not 
having yet assumed his ducal cap and robes, stood to receive 
his guests with due courtesy, and to indicate to each the road 
allotted to him. Those who were to take a share in the repre- 
sentation of the morning were conducted to an old saloon, 
destined for a green-room, and which communicated with a 
series of apartments on the right, hastily fitted with accommoda- 
tions for arranging and completing their toilet ; while others, 
who took no part in the intended drama, were ushered to the 
left, into a large, unfurnished, and long disused dining parlor, 
where a sashed door opened into the gardens, crossed with yew 
and holly hedges, still trimmed and clipped by the old gray- 
headed gardener, upon those principles which a Dutchman 
thought worthy of commemorating in a didactic poem upon the 
Ars Topiaria. 

A little wilderness, surrounding a beautiful piece of the 
smoothest turf, and itself bounded by such high hedges as we 
have described, had been selected as the stage most proper for 
the exhibition of the intended dramatic picture. It afforded 
many facilities ; for a rising bank exactly in front was accom- 
modated with seats for the spectators, who had a complete view 
of the sylvan theatre, the bushes and shrubs having been cleared 
away, and the place supplied with a temporary screen, which, 
being withdrawn by the domestics appointed for that purpose, 
was to serve fot the rising of the curtain. A covered trellis, 
which passed through another part of the garden, and termi- 
nated with a private door opening from the right wing of the 
building, seemed as if it had been planted on purpose for the 
proposed exhibition, as it served to give the personages of the 
drama a convenient and secret access from the green-room to 
the place of representation. Indeed, the dramatis personae, at 
least those who adopted the management of the matter, were 
induced, by so much convenience, to extend, in some measure, 
their original plan ; and, instead of one group, as had been at 
first proposed, they now found themselves able to exhibit to the 
good company a succession of three or four, selected and 
arranged from different parts of the drama ; thus giving some 


202 


ST, JRONAN'S WELL. 


duration, as well as some variety, to the entertainment, besides 
the advantage of separating and contrasting the tragic and the 
comic scenes. 

After wandering about amongst the gardens, which contained 
little to interest any one, and endeavoring to recognize some 
characters, who, accommodating themselves to the humors of 
the day, had ventured to appear in the various disguises of 
ballad-singers, pedlers, shepherds. Highlanders, and so forth, 
the company began to draw together toward the spot where 
the seats prepared for them, and the screen drawn in front of 
the bosky stage, induced them to assemble, and excited expecta- 
tion, especially as a scroll in front of the esplanade set forth, 
in the words of the play, “ This green plot shall be our stage, 
this hawthorn brake our tiring-house, and we will do it in 
action.’’ A delay of about ten minutes began to excite some 
suppressed murmurs of impatience among the audience, when 
the touch of Gow’s fiddle suddenly burst from a neighboring 
hedge, behind which he had established his little orchestra. 
All were of course silent. 

“ As through his dear strathspeys he bore with Highland rage.” 

And when he changed his strain to an adagio, and suffered his 
music to die away in the plaintive notes of Roslin Castle, the 
echoes of the old walls were, after a long slumber, awakened 
by that enthusiastic burst of applause, with which the Scots 
usually received and rewarded their country’s gifted minstrel. 

“ He is his father’s own son,” said Touchwood to the clergy- 
man, for both had gotten seats near about the centre of the 
place of audience. “ It is many a long year since I listened to 
old Neil at Inver, and, to say truth, spent a night with him 
over pancakes and Athole brose ; and I never expected to hear 
his match again in my lifetime. But stop — the curtain rises.” 

The screen was indeed withdrawn, and displayed Hermia, 
Helena, and their lovers, in attitudes corresponding to the scene 
of confusion occasioned by the error of Puck. 

Mes.srs. Chatterly and the Painter played their parts neither 
better nor w-orse than amateur actors in general ; and the best 
that could be said of them was, that they seemed more than half 
ashamed of their exotic dresses, and of the public gaze. 

But against this untimely weakness Lady Penelope was 
guarded, by the strong shield of self-conceit. She minced, am- 
bled, and, notwithstanding the slight appearance of her person, 
and the depredations which time had made on a countenance 
that had never been very much distinguished for beauty, seemed 


ST. RONA/V^S WELL. 


203 

desirous to top the part of the beautiful daughter of Egeus. The 
sullenness which was proper to the character of Hermia, was 
much augmented by the discovery that Miss Mowbray was so 
much better dressed than herself, — a discovery which she had 
but recently made, as that young lady had not attended on the 
regular rehearsals at the Well, but once, and then without her 
stage habit. Her ladyship, however, did not permit this painful 
sense of inferiority, where she had expected triumph, so far to 
prevail over her .desire of shining, as to interrupt materially 
the manner in which she had settled to represent her portion of 
the scene. The nature of the exhibition precluded much ac- 
tion, but Lady Penelope made amends by such a succession of 
grimaces, as might rival, in variety at least, the singular dis- 
play which Garrick used to call “ Going his rounds.” She twist- 
ed her poor features into looks of most desperate love toward 
Lysander ; into those of wonder and offended pride, when she 
turned them upon Demetrius ; and finally settled them on 
Helena, with the happiest possible imitation of an incensed 
rival, who feels the impossibility of relieving her swollen heart 
by tears alone, and is just about to have recourse to her nails. 

No contrast could be stronger in looks, demeanor, and figure, 
than that between Hermia and Helena. In the latter character, 
the beautiful form and foreign dress of Miss Mowbray attracted 
all eyes. She kept her place on the stage, as a sentinel does 
that which his charge assigns him ; for she had previously told 
her brother, that though she consented, at his importunity, to 
make part of the exhibition, it was as a piece of the scene, not 
as an actor, and accordingly a painted figure could scarce be 
more immovable. The expression of her countenance seemed to 
be that of deep sorrow and perplexity, belonging to her part, over 
which wandered at times an air of irony or ridicule, as if she were 
secretly scorning the whole exhibition, and even herself for con- 
descending to become part of it. Above all, a sense of bash- 
fulness had cast upon her cheek a color, which, though 
sufficiently slight, was more than her countenance was used to 
display; and when the spectators beheld, in the splendor and 
grace of a rich Oriental dress, her whom they had hitherto been 
accustomed to see attired only in the most careless manner, 
they felt the additional charms of surprise and contrast ; so that 
the burst of applause which were volleyed toward the stage, 
might be said to be addressed to her alone, and to vie in sin- 
cerity with those which have been forced from an audience by 
the most accomplished performer. 

“ Oh that puir Lady Penelope ! ” said honest Mrs. Blower, 
who, when her scruples against the exhibition were once got 


204 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


over, began to look upon it with particular interest, — “ I am 
really sorry for her puir face, for she gars it work like the sails 
of John Blower’s vesshel in a stiff breeze. — Oh, Doctor Cackle- 
hen, dinna ye think she wad need, if it were possible, to rin 
ower her face wi’ a gusing iron, just to take the wrunkles out 
o’t?” 

“ Hush, hush ! my good dear Mrs. Blower,” said the Doctor ; 
“ Lady Penelope is a woman of quality, and my patient, and 
such people always act charmingly — you must understand there 
is no hissing at a private theatre — Hem I ” 

“ Ye may say what ye like. Doctor, but there is nae fule like 
and auld fule — to be sure, if she was as young and beautiful as 
Miss Mowbray — hegh me, and I didna use to think her sae 
bonny neither — but dress — dress makes an unco difference — 
That shawl o’ hers — I daur say the like o’t was ne’er seen in 
braid Scotland — It will be real Indian, I’se warrant.” 

“ Real Indian ! ” said Mr. Touchwood, in an accent of dis- 
dain, which rather disturbed Mrs. Blower’s equanimity, — “why, 
what do you suppose it should be, madam ? ” 

“ I dinna ken, sir,” said she, edging somewhat nearer the 
Doctor, not being altogether pleased, as she afterward allowed, 
with the outlandish appearance and sharp tone of the traveler ; 
then pulling her own drapery round her shoulders, she added, 
courageously, “ There are braw shawls made at Paisley, that ye 
will scarce ken frae foreign.” 

“ Not know Paisley shawls from Indian, madam ! ” said 
Touchwood ; “ why, a blind man could tell by the slightest 
touch of his little finger. Yon shawl, now, is the handsomest I 
have seen in Britain — and at this distance I can tell it to be a 
real Tozie.’^ 

“ Cozie may she weel be that wears it,” said Mrs. Blower. 
“ I declare, now I look on’t again, it’s a perfect beauty.” 

“ It is called Tozie, ma’am, not cozie,” continued the tra- 
veler ; “the Shroffs at Surat told me, in i8oi, that it is made 
out of the inner coat of a goat.” 

“ Of a sheep, sir, I am thinking ye mean, for goats has nae 
woo’.” 

“ Npt much of it, indeed, madam ; but you are to under- 
stand that they use only the inmost coat ; and then their dyes — 
that Tozie now will keep its color while there is a rag of it left 
-—men bequeath them in legacies to their grandchildren.” 

“ And a very bonny color it is,” said the dame ; “ something 
like a mouse’s back, only a thought redder — I wonder what 
they ca’ that color.” 

“ The color is much admired, madam,” said Touchwood, 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


205 

who was now on a favorite topic ; “ the Mussulmans say the 
color is betwixt that of an elephant and the breast of the 
faughta.'^ 

“ In troth, I am as wise as I was,” said Mrs. Blower. 

^ “ The faiighta, m^dam, so called by the Moors (for the 
Hindoos call it holla/i)^ is a sort of pigeon, held sacred among 
the Moslem of India, because they think it dyed its breast in 
the blood of Ali. — But I see they are closing the scene. — Mr. 
Cargill, are you composing your sermon, my good friend, or 
what can you be thinking of ? ” 

Mr. Cargill had, during the whole scene, remained with his 
eyes fixed, in intent and anxious, although almost unconscious 
gaze, upon Clara Mowbray ; and when the voice of his com- 
panion startled him out of his reverie, he exclaimed, “ Most 
lovely — most unhappy — yes — I must and will see her ! ” 

“ See her .? ” replied Touchwood, too much accustomed to 
his friend’s singularities to look for much reason or connection 
in anything he said or did ; “ Why, you shall see her and talk 
to her too, if that will give you pleasure. — They say now,” he 
continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that this Mowbray 
is ruined. I see nothing like it, since he can dress out his 
sister like a Begum. Did you ever see such a splendid 
shawl .? ” 

“ Dearly purchased splendor,” said Mr. Cargill, with a deep 
sigh ; “ I wish that the price be yet fully paid ! ” 

“ Very likely not,” said the traveler ; “ very likely it’s gone 
to the book ; and for the price, I have known a thousand 
rupees given for such a shawl in the country. — But hush, hush, 
we are to have another tune from Nathaniel — faith, and they 
are withdrawing the screen — Well, they have some mercy — they 
do not let us wait long between the acts of their follies at least 
■ — I love a quick and rattling fire in these vanities — Folly 
walking a funeral pace, and clinking her bells to the time of a 
passing knell, make sad work indeed.” 

A strain of music, beginning slowly, and terminating in a 
light and wild allegro, introduced on the stage those delightful 
creatures of the richest imagination that ever teemed with 
wonders, the Oberon and Titania of Shakespeare. The pigmy 
majesty of the captain of the fairy band had no inapt repre- 
sentative in Miss Digges, whose modesty was not so great an 
intruder as to prevent her desire to present him in all his 
dignity, and she moved, conscious of the graceful turn of a 
pretty ankle, which, encircled with a string of pearls, and 
clothed in flesh-colored silk, of the most cobweb texture, rose 
above the crimson sandal. Her jeweled tiara, too, gave dignity 


2o6 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


to the frown with which the offended King of Shadows greeted 
his consort, as each entered upon the scene at the head of their 
several attendants. 

The restlessness of the children had been duly considered ; 
and therefore, their part of the exhibition had been contrived 
to represent dumb show, rather than a stationary picture. The 
little Queen of Elves was not inferior in action to her moody 
lord, and repaid, with a look of female impatience and scorn, 
the haughty air which seemed to express his sullen greeting, 

“111 met by moonlight, proud Titania.” 

The other children were, as usual, some clever and forward, 
some loutish and awkward enough ; but the gambols of child- 
hood are sure to receive applause, paid, perhaps, with a mixture 
of pity and envy, by those in advanced life ; and besides, there 
were in the company several fond papas and mammas, whose 
clamorous approbation, though given apparently to the whole 
performers, was especially dedicated in their hearts to their own 
little Jackies and Marias, — for Mary, though the prettiest and 
most classical of Scottish names, is now unknown in the land. 
The elves, therefore, played their frolics, danced a measure, and 
vanished with good approbation. 

The anti-mask, as it may be called, of Bottom, and his com- 
pany of actors, next appeared on the stage, and a thunder of 
applause received the young Earl, who had, with infinite taste 
and dexterity, transformed himself into the similitude of an 
Athenian clown ; observing the Grecian costume, yet so judici- 
ously discriminated from the dress of the higher characters, as 
at once to fix the character of a thick-skinned mechanic on the 
wearer. Touchwood, in particular, was loud in his approbation, 
from which the correctness of the costume must be inferred ; for 
that honest gentleman, like many other critics, was indeed not 
very much distinguished for good taste, but had a capital 
memory for petty matters of fact ; and while the most impres- 
sive look or gesture of an actor might have failed to interest 
him, would have censured most severely the fashion of a sleeve, 
or the color of a shoe-tie. 

But the Earl of Etherington’s merits were not confined to his 
external appearance ; for, had his better fortunes failed him, 
his deserts, like those of Hamlet, might have got him a fellow, 
ship in a cry of players. He presented, though in dumb show- 
the pragmatic conceit of Bottom, to the infinite amusement of 
all present, especially of those who were well acquainted with 
the original ; and when he was “ translated ” by Puck, he bore 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


207 

the ass^s head, his newly-acquired dignity, with an appearance 
of conscious greatness, which made the metamorphosis^ though 
in itself sufficiently farcical, irresistibly comic. He afterward 
displayed the same humor in his frolics with the fairies, and 
the intercourse which he held with Messrs. Cobweb, Mustard- 
seed, Pease-blossom, and the rest of Titania’s cavaliers, who lost 
all command of their countenances at the gravity with which he 
invited them to afford him the luxury of scratching his hairy 
snout. Mowbray had also found a fitting representative for 
Puck in a queer-looking, small eyed boy of the Aultoun^of St. 
Ron an ’s, with large ears projecting from his head like turrets 
from a Gothic building. This exotic animal personified the 
merry and mocking spirit of Hobgoblin with considerable power, 
so that the group bore some resemblance to the well-known and 
exquisite delineation of Puck by Sir Joshua, in the select collec- 
tion of the Bard of Memory. It was, however, the ruin of the 
St. Ronan’s Robin Goodfellow, who did no good afterward, — 
“gaed an ill gate,” as Meg Dods said, and “ took on ” with a 
party of strolling players. 

The entertainment closed with a grand parade of all the 
characters that had appeared, during which Mowbray concluded 
that the young lord himself, unremarked, might have time 
enough to examine the outward form, at least, of his sister 
Clara, whom, in the pride of his heart, he could not help con- 
sidering superior in beauty, dressed as she now was, with every 
advantage of art, even to the brilliant Amazon, Lady Binks. 
It is true, Mowbray was not a man to give preference to the 
intellectual expression of poor Clara’s features over the sultana- 
like beauty of the haughty dame, which promised to an admirer 
all the vicissitudes that can be expressed by a countenance 
lovely in every change, and changing as often as an ardent and 
impetuous disposition, unused to constraint, and despising 
admonition, should please to dictate. Yet, to do him justice, 
though his preference was perhaps dictated more by fraternal 
partiality than by purity of taste, he certainly, on the present 
occasion, felt the full extent of Clara’s superiority ; and there 
was a proud smile on his lip, as, at the conclusion of the 
divertisement, he asked the Earl how he had been pleased. 
The rest of the performers had separated, and the young lord 
remained on the stage, employed in disembarrassing himself 
of his aw'kward visor, when Mowbray put this question, to 
which, though general in terms, he naturally gave a particular 
meaning. 

“ I could wear my ass’s head forever,” he said, “ on condi- 
tion my eyes were to be so delightfully employed as they 


8o8 


ST, JiONAN'S WELL, 


have been during the last scene. — Mowbray, your sister is an 
angel ! ” 

“ Have a care that that head-piece of yours has not perverted 
your taste, my lord,” said Mowbray. “ But why did you wear 
that disguise on your last appearance ? You should, I think, 
have been uncovered.” 

“ I am ashamed to answer you,” said the Earl ; “ but truth 
is, first impressions are of consequence, and I thought I might 
do as wisely not to appear before your sister, for the first time, 
in the character of Bully Bottofn.” 

Then you change your dress, my lord, for dinner, if we call 
our luncheon by that name ? ” said Mowbray. 

1 am going to my room this instant for that very purpose,” 
replied the Earl. 

“ And I,” said Mowbray, “ must step in front and dismiss 
the audience ; for I see they are sitting gaping there, waiting 
for another scene.” 

They parted upon this ; and Mowbray, as Duke Theseus, 
stepped before the screen, and announcing the conclusion of the 
dramatic pictures which they had had the honor to present 
before the worshipful company, thanked the spectators for the 
very favorable reception which they had afforded ; and intimated 
to them, that if they could amuse themselves by strolling for an 
hour among the gardens, a bell would summon to the house at 
the expiry of that time, when some refreshments would wait 
their acceptance. This annunciation was received with the ap- 
plause due to the Ai7iphitryon ou Vo7i dme ; and the guests, 
arising from before the temporary theatre, dispersed through the 
gardens, which were of some extent, to seek for or to create 
amusement to themselves. The music greatly aided them in 
this last purpose, and it was not long ere a dozen of couples 
and upward were “ tripping it on the light fantastic toe ” (I 
love a phrase that is not hackneyed), to the tune of Monymusk. 

Others strolled through the grounds meeting some quaint 
disguise at the end of every verdant alley, and communicating 
to others the surprise and amusement which they themselves 
were receiving. The scene, from the variety of dresses, the 
freedom which it gave to the display of humor amongst such 
as possessed any, and the general disposition to give and receive 
pleasure, rendered the little masquerade more entertaining than 
others of the kind for which more ample and magnificent prep- 
arations have been made. There was also a singular and 
pleasing contrast between the fantastic figures who wandered 
through the gardens, and the quiet scene itself, to which the 
old dipt hedges, the formal distribution of the ground, and the 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


209 

antiquated appearance of one or two fountains and artificial 
cascades, in which the naiads had been for the nonce compelled 
to resume their ancient frolics, gave an appearance of unusual 
simplicity and seclusion, and which seemed rather to belong to 
the /ast than to the present generation. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. 

PERPLEXITIES. 

For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours. 

Fore-run fair Love, strewing his way with flowers. 

Love’s 1,abor Lost. ^ 

Worthies, away — the scene begins to cloud. 

Ibidem. 

Mr. Touchwood and his inseparable friend, Mr. Cargill, 
wandered on amidst the gay groups we have described, the 
former censuring with great scorn the frequent attempts which 
he observed toward an imitation of the costume of the East, 
and appealing with self-complacency to his own superior repre- 
sentation, as he greeted in Moorish and in Persic the several 
turban’d figures who passed his way; while the clergyman, 
whose mind seemed to labor with some weighty and important 
project, looked in every direction for the fair representative of 
Helena, but in vain. At length he caught a glimpse of the 
memorable shawl, which had drawn forth so learned a dis- 
cussion from his companion ; and started from Touchwood’s 
side with a degree of anxious alertness totally foreign to his 
usual habits, he endeavored to join the person by whom it was 
worn. 

“ By the Lord,” said his companion, “ the Doctor is beside 
himself ! — the parson is mad ! — the divine is out of his senses, 
that is clear; and how the devil can he, who scarce can find 
his road from the Cleikum to his own manse, venture himself 
unprotected into such a scene of confusion ? — he might as well 
pretend to cross the Atlantic without a pilot — I must push off 
in chase of him, lest worse come of it,” 

But the traveler was prevented from executing his friendly 
purpose by a sort of crowd which came rushing down the alley, 
the centre of which was occupied hy Captain MacTurk, in the 
very act of bullying two pseudo Highlanders, for having pre- 


210 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


sumed to lay aside their breeches before they had acquired the 
Gaelic language. The sounds of contempt and insult with 
which the genuine Celt was overwhelming the unfortunate im- 
postors, were not, indeed, intelligible otherwise than from the 
tone and manner of the speaker; but these intimated so much 
displeasure, that the plaided forms whose unadvised choice of 
a disguise had provoked it — two raw lads from a certain great 
manufacturing town — heartily repented their temerity, and 
were in the act of seeking for the speediest exit from the 
gardens ; rather choosing to resign their share of the dinner, 
than to abide the further consequences that might follow from 
the displeasure of this Highland Termagant. 

Touchwood had scarcely extricated himself from this im- 
pediment, and again commenced his researches after the clergy- 
man, when his course was once more interrupted by a sort of 
press-gang, headed by Sir Bingo Binks, who, in order to play 
his character of a drunken boatswain to the life, seemed cer- 
tainly drunk enough, however little of a seaman. His cheer 
sounded more .like a view-hollo than a hail, when, with a volley 
of such oaths as would have blown a whole fleet of the Bethel 
Union out of the water, he ordered Touchwood “ to come 
under his lee, and be d — d ; for, smash his old timbers, he 
must go to sea again, for as weather-beaten a hulk as he was.” 

Touchwood answered instantly, “To sea with all my 
heart, but not with a land-lubber for commander. — Hark ye, 
brother, do you know how much of a horse’s furniture belongs 
to a ship } ” 

“ Come, none of your quizzing, my old buck,” said Sir 
Bingo — “ What the devil has a ship to do with a horse’s furni- 
ture ? — Do you think we belong to the horse-marines } — ha ! 
ha ! I think you’re matched, brother.” 

“ Why, you son of a fresh-water gudgeon,” replied the trav- 
eler, “ that never in your life sailed further than the Isle of 
Dogs, do you pretend to play a sailor, and not know the bridle 
of the bow-line, and the saddle of the boltsprit, and the bit for 
the cable, and the girth to hoist the rigging, and the whip to 
serve for small tackle ? — There is a trick for you to find out 
an Abramman, and save sixpence when he begs of you as a dis- 
banded seaman. — Get along with you ! or the constable shall 
be charged with the whole press-gang to man the workhouse ! ” 

A general laugh arose at the detection of the swaggering 
boatswain ; and all that the Baronet had for it was to sneak off, 
saying, “ D — n the old quiz, who the devil thought to have 
heard so much slang from an old muslin nightcap ? ” 

Touchwood, being now an object of some attention, was 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


211 


followed by two or three stragglers, whom he endeavored to 
rid himself of the best way he could, testifying an impatience 
a little inconsistent with the decorum of his Oriental de- 
meanor, but which arose from his desire to rejoin his com- 
panion, and some apprehension of inconvenience which he 
feared Cargill might sustain during his absence. For, being in 
fact as good-natured a man as any in the world, Mr. Touch- 
wood was at the same time one of the most conceited, and was 
very apt to suppose, that his presence, advice, and assistance, 
M^ere of the most indispensable consequence to those with 
whom he lived ; and that not only on great emergencies, but 
even in the most ordinary occurrences of life. 

Meantime, Mr. Cargill, whom he sought in vain, was, on his 
part anxiously keeping in sight of the beautiful Indian shawl, 
which served as a flag to announce to him the vessel which he 
held in chase. At length he approached so close as to say, in 
an anxious whisper, “ Miss Mowbray — Miss Mowbray — I must 
speak with you.” 

“ And what would you have with Miss Mowbray ? ” said the 
fair wearer of the beautiful shawl, but without turning round 
her head. 

“ I have a secret — an important secret, of which to make 
you aware ; but it is not for this place. — Do not turn from me ! 
— Your happiness in this, and perhaps in the next life, depends 
on your listening to me.” 

The lady led the way, as if to give him an opportunity of 
speaking with her more privately, to one of those old-fashion|d 
and deeply-embowered recesses, which are commonly found in 
such gardens as that of Shaws Castle ; and, with her shawl 
wrapped around her head, so as in some degree to conceal her 
features, she stood before Mr. Cargill in the doubtful light and 
shadow of a huge platanus-tree, which formed the canopy of 
the arbor, and seemed to await the communication he had 
promised. 

“ Report says,” said the clergyman, speaking in an eager 
and hurried manner, yet with a low voice, like one desirous of 
being heard by her whom he addressed, and by no one else, — 
“ Report says that you are about to be married.” 

“ And is report kind enough to say to whom ? ” answered 
the lady, with a tone of indifference which seemed to astound 
her interrogator. 

“ Young lady,” he answered, with a solemn voice, “had this 
levity been sworn to me, I could never have believed it } Have 
you forgot the circumstances in which you stand ? — Have you 
forgotten that my promise of secrecy, sinful perhaps even in 


212 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


that degree, was but a conditional promise ? — or did you think 
that a being so sequestered as I am was already dead to the 
world, even while he was walking upon its surface ? — Know, 
young lady, that I am indeed dead to the pleasures and the or- 
dinary business of life, but I am even therefore the more alive 
to its duties.” 

“ Upon my honor, sir, unless you are pleased to be more 
explicit, it is impossible for me either to answer or understand 
you,” said the lady ; “ you speak too seriously for a masquerade 
pleasantry, and yet not clearly enough to make your earnest 
comprehensible.” 

“ Is this sullenness, Miss Mowbray ? ” said the clergyman, 
with increased animation ; “ Is it levity ? — Or is it alienation of 
mind ? — Even after a fever of the brain, we retain a recollec- 
tion of the causes of our* illness. — Come, you must and do un- 
derstand me, when I say that I will not consent to your com- 
mitting a great crime to attain temporal wealth and rank, no, 
not to make you an empress. My path is a clear one ; and 
should I hear a whisper breathed of your alliance with this 
Earl, or whatever he may be, rely upon it, that I will withdraw 
the veil, and make your brother, your bridegroom, and the 
whole world, acquainted with the situation in which you stand, 
and the impossibility of your forming the alliance which you 
propose to yourself, I am compelled to say, against the laws of 
God and man.” 

“ But, sir — sir,” answered the lady, rather eagerly than 
anxiously, “ you have not yet told me what business you have 
wUh my marriage, or what arguments you can bring against it.” 

“ Madam,” replied Mr. Cargill, “ in your present state of 
mind, and in such a scene as this, I cannot enter upon a topic 
for which the season is unfit, and you, I am sorry to say, are 
totally unprepared. It is enough that you know the grounds 
on which you stand. At a fitter opportunity, I will, as it is my 
duty, lay before you the enormity of what you are said to 
have meditated, with the freedom which becomes one, who, 
however humble, is appointed to explain to his fellow-creatures 
the laws of his Maker. In the meantime, I am not afraid that 
you will take any hasty step, after such a warning as this.” 

So saying, he turned from the lady with that dignity which 
a conscious discharge of duty confers, yet, at the same time, 
with a sense of deep pain, inflicted by the careless levity of 
her whom he addressed. She did not any longer attempt to 
detain him, but made her escape from the arbor by one alley, 
as she heard voices which seemed to approach it from another. 
The clergyman, who took the opposite direction, met in full 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


213 


encounter a whispering and tittering pair, who seemed, at his 
sudden appearance, to check their tone of familiarity, and 
assume an appearance of greater distance toward each other. 
The lady was no other than the fair Queen of the Amazons, 
who seemed to have adopted the recent partiality of Titania 
toward Bully Bottom, being in conference such and so close as 
we have described, with the late representative of the Athenian 
weaver, whose recent visit to his chamber had metamorphosed 
into the more gallant disguise of an ancient Spanish cavalier. 
He now appeared with cloak and drooping plume, sword, pon- 
iard, and guitar, richly dressed at all points, as for a serenade 
beneath his mistress’s window ; a silk mask at the breast of his 
embroidered doublet hung ready to be assumed in case of in- 
trusion, as an appropriate part of the national dress. 

It sometimes happened to Mr. Cargill, as we believe it may 
chance to other men much subject to absence of mind, that, 
contrary to their wont, and much after the manner of a sun- 
beam suddenly piercing a deep mist, and illuminating one par- 
ticular object in the landscape, some sudden recollection rushes 
upon them, and seems to compel them to act under it, as 
under the influence of complete certainty and conviction. Mr. 
Cargill had no sooner set eyes on the Spanish Cavalier, in 
whom he neither knew the Earl of Etherington, nor recognized 
Bully Bottom, than with hasty motion he seized on his reluct- 
ant hand, and exclaimed, with a mixture of eagerness and 
solemnity, “ I rejoice to see you ! — Heaven has sent you here 
in its own good time.” 

“I thank you, sir,” replied Lord Etherington, very coldly; 
“ I believe you have the joy of the meeting entirely on your 
side, as I cannot remember having seen you before.’ 

“ Is not your name Buhner ? ” said the clergyman. “ I — I 
know — I am sometimes apt to make mistakes — But I am sure 
your name is Bulmer ? ” 

“ Not that ever I or my godfathers heard of — my name was 
Bottom half-an-hour ago — perhaps that makes the confusion,” 
answered the Earl, with very cold and distant politeness ; — 
“ Permit me to pass, sir, that I may attend the lady.” 

“ Quite unnecessary,” answered Lady Binks ; “ I leave you 
to adjust your mutual recollections with your new old friend, my 
lord — he seems to have something to say.” So saying, the 
lady walked on, not perhaps sorry of an opportunity to show 
apparent indifference for his* lordship’s society, in the presence 
of one who had surprised them in what might seem a moment 
of exuberant intimacy. 

“You detain me, sir,” said the Earl of Etherington to Mr. 


214 


ST. IWNAN^S WELL, 


Cargill, who, bewildered and uncertain, still kept himself 
placed so directly before the young nobleman, as to make it 
impossible for him to pass, without absolutely pushing him to 
one side. “ I must really attend the lady,” he added, making 
another effort to walk on. 

“Young man,” said Mr. Cargill, “you cannot disguise your- 
self from me. I am sure — my mind assures me, that you are 
that very Bulmer whom Heaven has sent here to prevent 
crime.” 

“ And yon,” said Lord Etherington, “ whom my mind as- 
sures me I never saw in my life, are sent hither by the devil, I 
think, to create confusion.” 

“ I beg pardon, sir,” said the clergyman, staggered by the 
calm and pertinacious denial of the Earl — “ I beg pardon if I 
am in a mistake — that is, if I am rea/ly in a mistake — but I am 
not — I am sure I am not — That look — that smile — I am not 
mistaken. You a?'e Valentine Bulmer — the very Valentine 
Bulmer whom I — but I will not make your private affairs any 
part of this exposition — enough, you are Valentine Bulmer.” 

“Valentine.? — Valentine.?” answered Lord Etherington, 
impatiently — “ I am neither Valentine nor Orson — I wish you 
good-morning, sir.” 

“ Stay, sir, stay, I charge you,” said the clergyman ; “ if you 
are unwilling to be known yourself, it may be because you have 
forgotten who I am — Let me name myself as the Reverend 
Josiah Cargill, minister of St. Ronan’s.” 

“ If you bear a character so venerable, sir,” replied the young 
nobleman, — “ in which, however, I am not in the least interest- 
ed, — I think when you make your morning draught a little too 
potent, it might be as well for you to stay at home and sleep it 
off, before coming into company.” 

“ In the name of Heaven, young gentleman,” said Mr. Car- 
gill, “ lay aside this untimely and unseemly jesting ! and tell 
me if you be not — as I cannot but still believe you to be — that 
same youth, who, seven years since, left in my deposit a solemn 
secret, which, if I should unfold to the wrong person, woe would 
be my own heart, and evil the consequences which might en- 
sue ! ” 

“ You very pressing with me, sir,” said the Earl ; “and, 
in exchange, I will be equally frank with you. — I am not the 
man whom you mistake me for, and you may go seek him 
where you will — It will be still more lucky for you if you chance 
to find your own wits in the course of your researches ; for I 
must tell you plainly, I think they are gone somewhat astrav.” 
So saying, with a gesture expressive of a determined purpose to 


ST. RONAJsr^S WELL. 


2IS 

pass on, Mr. Cargill had no alternative but to make way, and 
suffer him to proceed. 

The worthy clergyman stood as if rooted to the ground, and, 
with his usual habit of thinking aloud, exclaimed to himself, 
“ My fancy has played me many a be\vildering trick, but this 
is the most extraordinary of them all ! — What can this young 
man think of me } It must have been my conversation with 
that unhappy young lady that has made such an impression up- 
on me as to deceive my very eye-sight, and causes me to con- 
nect with her history the face of tlie next person that I met— 
What must the stranger think of me t ” 

“ Why, what every one thinks of thee that knows thee, 
prophet,'’ said the friendly voice of Touchwood, accompanying 
his speech with an awakening slap on the clergyman’s shoulder ; 
“ and that is, that thou art an unfortunate philosopher of 
Laputa, who has lost his flapper in the throng. — Come along — 
having me once more by your side you need fear nothing. 
Why, now I look at you closer, you look as if you had seen a 
basilisk — not that there is any such thing, otherwise I must 
have seen it myself, in the course of my travels — but you seem 
pale and frightened — What the devil is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered the clergyman, “ except that I have 
even this very moment made an egregious fool of myself.” 

“ Pooh, pooh, that is nothing to sigh over, prophet. — Every 
man does so at least twice in the four-and-twenty hours,” said 
Touchwood. 

“ But I had nearly betrayed to a stranger a secret deeply 
concerning the honor of an ancient family.” 

“ That was wrong. Doctor,” said Touchwood ; “ take care of 
that in future ; and, indeed, I would advise you not to speak even 
to your beadle, Johnny Tirlsneck, until you have assured your- 
self by at least three pertinent questions and answers, that you 
have the said Johnny corporeally and substantially in presence 
before you, and that your fancy has not invested some stranger 
with honest Johnny’s singed periwig and threadbare brown 
joseph — Come along — come along.” 

So saying, he hurried forward the perplexed clergyman, 
who in vain made all the excuses he could think of in order to 
effect his escape from the scene of gayety, in which he was so un- 
expectedly involved. He pleaded headache ; and his friend assur- 
ed him that a mouthful of food, and a glass of wine, would mend 
it. He stated he had business ; and Touchwood replied that 
he could have none but composing his next sermon, and re- 
minded him that it was two days till Sunday. At length, Mr. 
Cargill confessed that he had some reluctance again to see the 


2i6 


ST. RONAA^'S WELL. 


Stranger, on whom he had endeavored with such pertinacity to 
fix an acquaintance, which he was now well assured existed only 
in his own imagination. The traveler treated his scruples with 
scorn, and said, that guests meeting in this general manner, 
had no more to do with each other than if they were assembled 
in a caravansary. 

“ So that you need not say a word to him in the way of 
apology or otherwise — or, what will be still better, I, who have 
seen so much of the world, will make the pretty speech for 
you.” As they spoke, he dragged the divine toward the house, 
where they were now summoned by the appointed signal, and 
where the company were assembling in the old saloon already 
noticed, previous to passing into the dining-room, where the 
refreshments were prepared. “ Now, Doctor,” continued the 
busy friend of Mr. Cargill, “ let us see which of all these peo- 
ple has been the subject of your blunder. Is it yon animal of 
a Highlandman ? — or the impertimnent brute that wants to be 
thought a boatswain ? or which of them all is it ^ — Ay, here 
they come, two and two, Newgate fashion — the young I.ord of 
the" Manor with old Lady Penelope — does he set up for Ulysses, 
I wonder? — The Earl of Etherington wiih Lady Bingo — me- 
thinks it should have been with Miss Mowbray.” 

“ The Earl of what did you say ? ” quoth the clergyman, 
anxiously. “ How is it you titled that young man in the 
Spanish dress ? ” 

“ Oho !” said the traveler; “ what, I have discovered the 
2:oblin that has scared vou ? — Come alon^f — come along — I 
will make you acquainted with him.” So saying, he dragged 
him toward Lord Etherington ; and before the divine could 
make his negative intelligible, the ceremony of introduction 
had taken place. “ My Lord Etherington, allow me to present 
Mr. Cargill, minister of this parish — a learned gentleman, 
whose head is often in the Holy Land, when his person seems 
present among his friends. He suffers extremely, my lord, 
under the sense of mistaking your lordship for the Lord knows 
who ; but when you are acquainted with him, you will find that 
he can make a hundred stranger mistakes than that, so we hope 
that your lordship will take no prejudice or offence.” 

“ There can be no offence taken where no offence is in- 
tended,” said Lord Etherington with much urbanity. “ It is I 
who ought to beg the reverend gentleman's pardon, for hurry- 
ing from him without allowing him to make a complete Eclair- 
cissement. I beg his pardon for an abruptness which the place 
and the time — for I was immediately engaged in a lady’s ser- 
vice — rendered unavoidable.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


217 

Mr. Cargill gazed oil the young nobleman as he pronounced 
these words, with the easy indifference of one who apologizes 
to an inferior in order to maintain his own character for polite- 
ness, but with perfect indifference whether his excuses are or 
are not held satisfactory. And as the clergyman gazed, the 
belief which had so strongly clung to him that the Earl of 
Etherington and young Valentine Bulmer were the same indi- 
vidual person, melted away like frost-work before the morning 
sun, and that so completely, that he marveled at himself for 
having ever entertained it. Some strong resemblance of features 
there must have been to have led him into such a delusion ; 
but the person, the tone, the manner of expression, were abso- 
lutely different ; and his attention being now especially directed 
toward these particulars, Mr. Cargill was inclined to think the 
two personages almost totally dissimilar. 

The clergyman had now only to make his apology and fall 
back from the head of the table to some lower seat, which his 
modesty would have preferred, when he was suddenly seized 
upon by the Lady Penelope Penfeather, who, detaining him in 
the most elegant and persuasive manner possible insisted that 
they should be introduced to each other by Mr. Mowbray, and 
that Mr. Cargill should sit beside her at table. — She had heard 
so much of his learning — so much of his excellent character- 
desired so much to make his acquaintance, that she could not 
think of losing an opportunity, which Mr. Cargill’s learned 
seclusion rendered so very rare — in a word, catching the Black 
Lion was the order of the day ; and her ladyship having trap- 
ped her prey, soon sat triumphant with him by her side. 

A second separation was thus effected betwixt Touchwood 
and his friend ; for the former, not being included in the invi- 
tation, or, indeed, at all noticed by Lady Penelope, was obliged 
to find room at a lower part of the table, where he excited much 
surprise by the dexterity with which he despatched boiled rice 
with chop-sticks. 

Mr. Cargill being thus exposed, without a consort, to the fire 
of Ladv Penelope, speedily found it so brisk and incessant, as 
to drive his complaisance, little tried as it had been for many 
years by small talk, almost to extremity. She began by beg- 
ging him to draw his chair close, for an instinctive terror of fine 
ladies had made him keep his distance. At the same time she 
hoped “ he was not afraid of her as an Episcopalian ; her father 
had belonged to that communion ; for,” she added, with what 
was intended for an arch smile, “ we were somewhat naughty 
in the forty-five, as you may have heard ; but all that was over, 
and she was sure Mr Cargill was too liberal to entertain any 


ST. TOATA/V’S WELL. 


2 I 8 

dislike or shyness on that score. — She could assure him she was 
far from disliking the Presbyterian form — indeed she had often 
wished to hear it, where she was sure to be both delighted and 
edified ” (here a gracious smile), “ in the church of St. Ronan’s 
■ — and hoped to do so whenever Mr. Mowbray had got a stove, 
which he had ordered from Edinburgh, on purpose to air his 
pew for her accommodation. ’’ 

All this, which was spoken with wreathed smiles and nods, 
and so much civility as to remind the clergyman of a cup of tea 
over-sweetened to conceal its want of strength and flavor, 
required and received no further answer than an accommodat- 
ing look and acquiescent bow. 

“ All, Mr. Cargill,” continued the inexhaustible Lady Pe- 
nelope, “ your profession has so many demands on the heart as 
well as the understanding — is so much connected with the kind- 
nesses and charities of our nature — with our best and purest 
feelings, Mr. Cargill ! You know what Goldsmith says : — 

‘ in Ills duty prompt at every call, 

He watched, and wept, and felt, and prayed for all.’ 

And then Dryden has such a picture of a parish priest so 
inimitable, one would think, did we not hear now and then of 
some living mortal presuming to emulate its features ” ( here 
another insinuating nod and expressive smile). 

“ ‘ Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense 
And almost made a sin of abstinence. 

Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, 

But such a face as jiromised him sincere ; 

Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, 

But sweet regard and pleasing sanctity.’ ” 

vVhile her ladyship declaimed, the clergyman’s wandering 
eye confessed his absent mind ; his thoughts traveling, perhaps 
to accomplish a truce betwixt Saladin and Conrade of Mount- 
serrat, unless they chanced to be occupied with some occur- 
rences of that very day, so that the lady was obliged to recall 
her indocile auditor with the leading question, “ You are well 
acquainted with Dryden, of course, Mr. Cargill .? ” 

“ 1 have not the honor, madam,” said Mr. Cargill, starting 
from his reverie, and but half understanding the question he 
replied to. 

“ Sir ! ” said the lady, surprised. 

“ Madam ! — my lady ! ” answered Mr. Cargill, in embarrass- 
ment. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


219 

I asked you if you admired Dryden ; — but you learned 
men are so absent — perhaps you thought I said Leyden.” 

“ A lamp too early quenched, madam,” said Mr. Cargill ; “ I 
knew him well.” 

“ And so did I,” eagerly replied the lady of the cerulean 
buskin ; “ he spoke ten languages — how mortifying to poor me, 
Mr. Cargill, who could only boast of five ! — but I have studied 
a little since that time — I must have you to help me in my 
studies, Mr. Cargill — it will be charitable — but perhaps you are 
afraid of a female pupil ? ” 

A thrill, arising from former recollections, passed through 
poor Cargill’s mind with as much acuteness as the pass of a 
rapier might have done through his body ; and we cannot help 
remarking, that a forward prater in society, like a busy bustler 
in a crowd, besides all other general points of annoyance, is 
eternally rubbing upon some tender point, and galling men’s 
feelings, without knowing or regarding it. 

“ You must assist me, besides, in my little charities, Mr. 
Cargill, now that you and I are become so well acquainted. — 
There is that Ann Heggie — I sent her a trifle yesterday, but I 
am told — I should not mention it, but only one would not have 
the little they have to bestow lavished on an improper object — 
I am told she is not quite proper — an unwedded mother, in short, 
Mr. Cargill — and it would be especially unbecoming in me to 
encourage profligacy.” 

“ J believe, madam,” said the clergyman, gravely, “the poor 
woman’s distress may justify your ladyship's bounty, even if her 
conduct has been faulty.” 

“ Oh, I am no prude, neither, I assure you, Mr. Cargill,” 
answered the Lady Penelope. “ I never withdraw my counte-' 
nance from any one but on the most irrefragable grounds. I 
could tell you of an intimate friend of my own, whom I have 
supported against the whole clamor of the people at the Well, 
because I believe, from the bottom of my soul, she is only 
thoughtless — nothing in the world but thoughtless — O Mr. 
Cargill, how can you look across the table so intelligently i — • 
who would have thought it of you ? — Oh fie, to make such 
personal applications ! ” 

“ Upon my word, madam, I am quite at a loss to comprO' 
hend ” 

“ Oh fie, fie, Mr. Cargill,” throwing in as much censure and 
surprise as a confidential whisper can convey — “ you looked at 
my Lady Binks — I know what you think, but you are quite 
wrong, I assure you ; you are entirely wrong. — I wish she 
would not flirt quite so much with that young Lord Ethering- 


220 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


ton though, Mr. Cargill — her situation is particular — Indeed, I 
believe she wears out his patience ; for see he is leaving the 
room before we sit down — how singular ! — And then do you not 
think it very odd, too, that Miss Mowbray has not come down 
to us ? ” 

“ Miss Mowbray ! — what of Miss Mowbray — is she not 
here ? ” said Mr. Cargill, starting, and with an expression of 
interest which he had not yet bestowed on any of her ladyship’s 
liberal communications. 

“ Ay, poor Miss Mowbra}^” said Lady Penelope, lowering 
her voice, and shaking her head ; “she has not appeared — her 
brother went up stairs a few minutes since, I believe, to bring 
her down, and so we are all left here to look at each other — 
How very awkward, but you know Clara Mowbray.” 

“ I, madam ? ” said Mr. Cargill, who was now sufficiently 
attentive ; “ I really — I know Miss Mowbray — that is I knew 
her some years since — But your ladyship knows she has been 
long in bad health — uncertain health, at least, and I have seen 
nothing of the young lady for a very long time.” 

“ I know it, my clear Mr. Cargill — I know it,” continued the 
Lady Penelope, in the same tone of deep sympathy, “ I know 
it ; and most unhappy surely have been the circumstances that 
have separated her from your advice and friendly counsel. — 
All this I am aware of — and to say truth, it has been chiefly 
on poor Clara’s account that I have been giving you the trouble 
of fixing an acquaintance upon you. — You and I together, Mr. 
Cargill, might do wonders to cure her unhappy state of mind — 
I am sure we might — that is, if you could bring your mind to 
repose absolute confidence in me.” 

“ Has Miss Mowbray desired your ladyship to converse with 
me upon any subject which interests her ? ” said the clergyman, 
with more cautious shrewdness than Lady Penelope had sus- 
pected him of possessing. “ I will in that case be happy to 
hear the nature of her communication ; and whatever mv poor 
services can perform, your ladyship may command them.” 

“ I — I — I cannot just assert,” said her ladyship with hesita- 
tion, “that I have Miss Mowbray’s direct instructions to speak 
to you, Mr. Cargill, upon the present subject. But my affection 
for the dear girl is so very great — and then, you know, the 
inconveniences which may arise from this match.” 

“ From which match. Lady Penelope ? ” said Mr. Cargill. 

“ Nay, now, Mr. Cargill, you really carry the privilege of 
Scotland too far — I have not put a single question to you, but 
what you have answered by another — let us converse intelligibly 
for five minutes, if you can but condescend so far.” 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


221 


“ For any length of time which your ladyship may please to 
command,” said Mr. Cargill, “provided the subject regard your 
ladyship’s own affairs or mine — could I suppose these last fora 
moment likely to interest you.” 

“Out upon you,” said the lady, laughing affectedly; “you 
should really have been a Catholic priest instead of a Presby- 
terian. What an invaluable father confessor have the fair sex 
lost in you, Mr. Cargill, and how dexterously you would have 
evaded any cross-examination which might have committed 
your penitents ! ” 

“ Your ladyship’s raillery is far too severe for me to with- 
stand or reply to,” said Mr. Cargill, bowing with more ease 
than her ladyship expected ; and, retiring gently backward, he 
extricated himself from a conversation which he began to find 
somewhat embarrassing. 

At that moment a murmur of surprise took place in the 
apartment, which was just entered by Miss Mowbray, leaning 
on her brother’s arm. The cause of this murmur will be best 
understood by narrating what had passed betwixt the brother 
and sister. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. 

EXPOSTULATION. 

Seek not the feast in these irreverent robes ; 

Go to niy chamber — put on clothes of mine. 

The Taming of the Shrew. 

It was with a mixture of anxiety, vexation, and resentment, 
that Mowbray, just when he had handed Lady Penelope into 
the apartment, where the tables were covered, observed that 
his sister was absent, and that Lady Pinks was hanging on the 
arm of Lord Etherington, to whose rank it would properly have 
Lallen to escort the lady of the house. An anxious and hasty 
glance cast through the room ascertained that she was absent, 
nor could the ladies present give any account of her after she 
had quitted the gardens, except that Lady Penelope had spoken 
a few words with her in her own apartment, immediately after 
the scenic entertainment was concluded. 

Thither Mowbray hurried, complaining aloud of his sister’s 
laziness in dressing, but internally hoping that the delay was 
occasioned by nothing of a more important character. 


222 


ST, TONAN^S WELL. 


He hastened up stairs, entered her sitting-room without 
ceremony, and knocking at the door of her dressing-room, 
begged her to make haste. 

“ Here is the whole company impatient,” he said, assuming 
.a tone of pleasantry; ‘‘and Sir Bingo Binks exclaiming for 
your presence, that he may be let loose on the cold meat.” 

“ Paddock calls,” said Clara from within ; “ anon — anon ! ” 

“ Nay, it is no jest, Clara,” continued her brother ; “ for 
Lady Penelope is miauling like a starved cat ! ” 

“I come — I come, graymalkin,” answered Clara, in the 
same vein as before, and entered the parlor as she spoke, her 
finery entirely thrown aside, and dressed in the riding-habit 
which was her usual and favorite attire. 

Her brother was both surprised and offended. “ On my 
soul,” he said, “ Clara, this is behaving very ill. I indulge you 
in every freak upon ordinary occasions, but you might surely 
on this day, of all others, have condescended to appear some- 
thing like my sister, and a gentlewoman receiving company in 
her own house.” 

“Why, dearest John,” said Clara, “so that the guests have 
enough to eat and drink, I cannot conceive why 1 should con- 
cern myself about their finery, or they trouble themselves about 
my plain clothes.” 

“Come, come, Clara, this will not do,” answered Mowbray; 
“ you must positively go back into your dressing-room, and 
huddle your things on as fast as you can. You cannot go down 
to the company dressed as you are.” 

“I certainly can, and I certainly wall, John — I have made a 
fool of myself once this morning to oblige you, and for the rest 
of the day I am determined to appear in my own dress ; that 
is, in one which shows I neither belong to the w^orld, nor w-ish 
to have anything to do with its fashions.” 

“ By my soul, Clara, I will make you repent this ! ” said 
Mowbray, with more violence than he usually exhibited where 
his sister was concerned. 

“You cannot, dear John,” she coolly replied, “ unless by 
beating me; and that I think you would repent of yourself.” 

“ I do not know but w'hat it were the best way of managing 
you,” said Mowbiay, muttering between his teeth; but, com- 
manding his violence, he only said aloud, “ I am sure, from long 
experience, Clara, that your obstinacy will at the long run beat 
my anger. Do let us compound the point for once — keep your 
old habit, since you are so fond of making a sight of yourself, 
and only throw the shawl round your shoulders — it has been 


ST. /?OA''AJV^S WELL. 


223 

exceedingly admired, and every woman in the house longs to 
see it closer — they can hardly believe it genuine.” 

“ Do be a man, Mowbray,” answered his sister ; “ meddle 
with youThorse-sheets, and leave shawls alone.” 

“ Do you be a woman, Clara, and think a little on them, 
when custom and decency render it necessary. — Nay, is it pos- 
sible ! — Will you not stir ? — not oblige me in such a trifle as 
this ? ” 

“ I would indeed if I could,” said Clara ; “ But since you 
must know the truth — do not be angry — I have not the shawl, I 
have given it away — given it up, perhaps I should say, to the 
rightful owner. — She has promised me something or other in 
exchange for it, however. I have given it to Lady Penelope.” 

“ Yes,” answered Mowbray, “ some of the work of her own 
fair hands, I suppose, or a couple of her ladyship’s drawings, 
made up into fire-screens. — On my word — on my soul, this is too 
bad ! — It is using me too ill, Clara — far too ill. If the thing had 
been of no value, my giving it to you should have fixed some 
upon it. — Good-even to you ; we will do as well as we can with- 
out you.” 

“ Nay, but, my dear John — stay but a moment,” said Clara, 
taking his arm as he sullenly turned toward the door ; “there 
are but two of us on earth — do not let us quarrel about a trum- 
pery shawl.” 

“Trumpery!” said Mowbray; “it cost fifty guineas, by 
G — , which I can but ill spare — trumpery ! ” 

“ Oh, never think of the cost,’’ said Clara ; “ it was your 
gift, and that should, I own, have been enough to have made me 
keep to my death’s day the poorest rag of it. But really Lady 
Penelope looked so very miserable, and twisted her poor face into 
so many odd expressions of anger and chagrin, that I resigned 
it to her, and agreed to say she had lent it to me for the perform- 
ance. I believe she was afraid that I would change my mind, 
or that you would resume it as a seignorial waif ; for, after she 
had walked a few turns with it wrapped around her, merely by 
way of taking possession, she despatched it by a special mes- 
senger to her apartment at the Well.” 

“ She may go to the devil,” said Mowbray, “ for a greedy 
unconscionable jade, who has varnished over a selfish, spiteful 
heart, that is as hard as a flint, with a fine glossing of taste and 
sensibility.” 

“Nay, but, John,” replied his sister, “she really had*!^ome- 
thing to complain of in the present case. The shawl had been 
bespoken on her account, or very nearly so — she showed me the 
tradesman’s letter — only some agent of yours had come in be- 


224 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


tween with the ready money, which no tradesman can resist. — 
Ah, John ! I suspect half of your anger is owing to the failure 
of a plan to mortify poor Lady Pen, and that ^he has more to 
complain of than you have. — Come come, you have had the ad- 
vantage of her in the first display of this fatal piece of finery, if 
wearing it on my poor shoulders can be called a display — e’en 
make her welcome to the rest for peace’s sake, and let us go 
down to these good folks, and you shall see how pretty and civil 
I shall behave.” 

Mowbray, a spoiled child, and with all the petted habits of in- 
dulgence, was exceedingly fretted at the issue of the scheme 
which he had formed for mortifying Lady Penelope ; but he saw 
at once the necessity of saying nothing more to his sister on the 
subject. Vengeance he privately muttered against Lady Pen, 
whom he termed an absolute harpy in blue stockings ; unjustly 
forgetting, that, in the very important affair at issue, he himself 
had been the first to interfere with and defeat her ladyship’s 
designs on the garment in question. 

But I will blow her,” he said, “ I will blow her ladyship’s 
conduct in the business ! She shall not outwit a poor whimsi- 
cal girl like Clara, without hearing it on more sides than one.” 

With this Christian and gentleman-like feeling toward Lady 
Penelope, he escorted his sister into the eating-room, and led 
her to her proper place at the head of the table. It was the 
negligence displayed in her dress which occasioned the murmur 
of surprise that greeted Clara on her entrance. Mowbray, as 
he placed his sister in her chair, made her general apology for 
her late appearance, and her riding-habit. “ Some fairies,” he 
supposed, “Puck, or such like tricksy goblin, had been in her 
wardrobe, and carried off whatever was fit for wearing.” 

There were answers from every quarter — that it would have 
been too much to expect Miss Mowbray to dress for their 
amusement a second time — that nothing she chose to wear 
could misbecome Miss Mowbray — that she had set like the sun, 
in her splendid scenic dress, and now rose like the full moon 
in her ordinary attire (this flight was by the Reverend Mr. 
Chatterly), — and that “ Miss Mowbray being at hame, had an 
unco glide right to please hersell ; ” which last piece of polite- 
ness, being at least as much to the purpose as any that had 
preceded it, ^vas the contribution of honest Mrs. Blower, and 
was replied to by Miss Mowbray with a particular and most 
gracious bow. 

Mrs. Blower ought to have rested her colloquial fame, as Dr. 
Johnson would have said, upon a compliment so evidently 
acceptable, but no one knows where to stop. She thrust her 


ST. liONAN^S WELL. 


225 

broad, good-natured, delighted countenance forward, and send- 
ing her voice from the bottom to the top of the table, like her 
umquhile husband when calling to his mate during a breeze, 
wondered “ why Miss Clara Mowbrie didna wear that grand 
shawl she had on at the play-making, and her just sitting upon 
the wind of a door. Nae doubt it was for fear of the soup, and 
the butter-boats and the like ; — but she had three shawls, which 
she really fand was ane ower morty — if Miss Mowbrie wad like 
to wear ane o’ them — it was but imitashion to be sure — but it 
wad keep her shouthers as warm as if it were real Indian, and 
if it were dirtied it was the less matter.” 

“ Much obliged, Mrs. Blower,” said Mowbray, unable to 
resist the temptation which this speech offered ; “ but my sister 
is not yet of quality sufficient to entitle her to rob her friends 
of their shawls.” 

Lady Penelope colored to the eyes, and bitter was the retort 
that arose to her tongue ; but she suppressed it, and nodding 
to Miss Mowbray in the most friendly way in the world, yet 
with a very particular expression, she only said, “ So you have 
told your brother of the little transaction which we have had 
this morning ? — Tu me lo pagheria — I give you fair warning, 
take care none of your secrets come into my keeping — that’s 
all.” 

Upon what mere trifles do the important events of human 
life sometimes depend ! If Lady Penelope had given w'ay to 
her first movements of resentment, the probable issue would 
have been some such half-comic, half-serious skirmish, as her 
ladyship and Mr. Mowbray had often amused the company 
withal. But revenge, which is suppressed and deferred, is 
always most to be dreaded ; and to the effects of the deliberate 
resentment which Lady Penelope cherished upon this trifling 
occasion, must be traced the events which our history has to 
record. Secretly did she determine to return the shawl, which 
she had entertained hopes of making her own upon very 
reasonable terms ; and as secretly did she resolve to be revenged 
both upon brother and sister, conceiving herself already pos- 
sessed, to a certain degree, of a clew to some part of their 
family history, which might serve for a foundation on which to 
raise her projected battery. The ancient offences 'and emula- 
tion of importance of the Laird of St. Ronan’s, and the 
superiority wdiich had been given to Clara in the exhibition of 
the day, combined with the immediate cause of resentment ; 
and it only remained for her to consider how her revenge could 
be most signally accomplished. 

Whilst such thoughts were passing through Lady Penelope’s 


226 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


mind, Mowbray was searching with his eyes for the Earl of 
Etherington, judging that it might be proper, in the course of 
the entertainment, or before the guests had separated, to make 
him formally acquainted with his sister, as a preface to the 
more intimate connection which must, in prosecution of the 
plan agreed upon, take place betwixt them. Greatly to his 
surprise, the young Earl was nowhere visible, and the place 
which he had occupied by fhe side of Lady Binks had been 
quietly appropriated by Winterblossom, as the best and softest 
chair in the room, and nearest to the head of the table, where 
the choicest of the entertainment is usually arranged. This 
honest gentleman, after a few insipid compliments to her lady- 
ship upon her performance as Queen of the Amazons, had 
betaken himself to the much more interesting occupation of 
ogling the dishes, through the glass which hung suspended at 
his neck by a gold chain of Maltese workmanship. After 
looking and wondering for a few seconds, Mowbray addressed 
himself to the old beaugar9on, and asked him what had become 
of Etherington. 

“ Retreated,” said Winterblossom, “and left but his compli- 
ments to you behind him — a complaint, I think, in his wounded 
arm — Upon my word, that soup has a most appetizing flavor ! 
— Lady Penelope, shall I have the honor to help you ? — no ! 
—nor you, Lady Binks ? — you are too cruel ; I must comfort 
myself, like a heathen priest of old, by eating the sacriflce 
which the deities have scorned to accept of.” 

Here he helped himself to the plate of soup which he had in 
vain offered to the ladies, and transferred the further duty of 
dispensing it to Master Chatterly ; “ it is your profession, sir, 
to propitiate the divinities — ahem ! ” 

“ I did not think Lord Etherington would have left us so 
soon,” said Mowbray; “but we must do the best we can with- 
out his countenance.” 

So saying, he assumed his place at the bottom of the table, 
and did his best to support the character of a hospitable and 
joyous landlord, while on her part, with much natural grace, 
and delicacy of attention calculated to set everybody at their 
ease, his sister presided at the upper end of the board. But 
the vanishing of Lord Etherington in a manner so sudden and 
unaccountable — the obvious ill-humor of Lady Penelope — and 
the steady, though passive sullenness of Lady Binks, spread 
among the company a gloom like that produced by an autumnal 
mist upon a pleasing landscape. The women were low-spirited, 
dull, nay, peevish, they did not well know why ; and the men 
could not be joyous, though the ready resource of old hock and 


ST, KONAN^S WELL, 


227 

champagne made some of them talkative. Lady Penelope 
broke up the party by well-feigned apprehension of the diffi- 
culties, nay, dangers, of returning by so rough a road. Lady 
Sinks begged a seat with her ladyship, as Sir Bingo, she said, 
judging from his devotion to the green flask, was likely to need 
their carriage home. From the moment of their departure, it 
became bad tone to remain behind ; and all, as in a retreating 
army, were eager to be foremost, excepting MacTurk and a few 
stanch topers, who, unused to meet with such good cheer every 
day of their lives, prudently determined to make the most of 
the opportunity. 

We will not dwell on the difficulties attending the transporta- 
tion of a large company by a few carriages, though the delay 
and disputes- thereby occasioned were of course more intolerable 
than in the morning, for the parties had no longer the hopes of 
a happy day before them, as a bribe to submit to temporary in- 
convenience. The impatience of many was so great, that, 
though the evening was raw, they chose to go on foot rather 
than await the dull routine of the returning carriages ; and as 
they retired, they agreed, with one consent, to throw the blame 
of whatever inconvenience they might sustain on their host 
and hostess, who had invited so large a party before getting a 
shorter and better road made between the Well and Shaws 
Castle. 

“It would have been so easy to repair the path by the Buck- 
stane ! ” 

And this was all the thanks which Mr. Mowbray received 
for an entertainment which had cost him so much trouble and 
expense, and had been looked forward to by the good society at 
the Well with such impatient expectation. 

“ It was an unco pleasant show,” said the good-natured Mrs. 
Blower, “ only it was a pity it was sae tediousome ; and there 
was surely an awfu’ waste of gauze and muslin.” 

But so well had Dr. Quackleben improved his numerous 
opportunities, that the good lady was much reconciled to affairs 
in general, by the prospect of coughs, rheumatisms, and other 
maladies acquired upon the occasion, which were likely to afford 
that learned gentleman, in whose prosperity she much interested 
herself, a very profitable harvest. 

Mowbray, somewhat addicted to the service of Bacchus, did 
not find himself freed, by the secession of so large a proportion 
of the company, from the service of the jolly god, although, upon 
the present occasion, he could well have dispensed with his 
orgies. Neither the song, nor the pun, nor the jest, had any 
power to kindle his heavy spirit, mortified as he was by the 


228 


ST. J^OJVAJV^S WELL. 


event of his party being so different from the brilliant consum- 
mation which he had anticipated. The guests, stanch boon com- 
panions, suffered not, however, their party to flag for want of 
the landlord’s participation, but continued to drink bottle after 
bottle, with as little regard for Mr. Mowbray’s grave looks, as 
if they had been carousing at the Mowbray Arms, instead of the 
Mowbray mansion-house. Midnight at length released him, 
when, with an unsteady step, he sought his own apartment, 
cursing himself and his companions, consigning his own person 
with all despatch to his bed, and bequeathing those of the com- 
pany to as many mosses and quagmires as could be found be 
twixt Shaws Castle and St. Ronan’s Well. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. 

THE PROPOSAL. 

Oh ! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant. 

The bride of heaven — Come — we may shake your purpose; 

For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor 
Hath ta’en degrees in the seven sciences 
That ladies love best — he is young and noble, 

Handsome and valiant, gay, and rich, and liberal. 

The Nun. 

The morning after a debauch is usually one of reflection, 
even to the most customary boon companion ; and, in the re- 
trospect of the preceding day, the young Laird of St Ronan’s 
saw nothing very consolatory, unless that the excess was not, 
in the present case, of his own seeking, but had arisen out of 
the necessary duties of a landlord, or what were considered as 
such by his companions. 

But it was not so much his dizzy recollections of the late 
carouse which haunted him on awakening, as the inexplicability 
which seemed to shroud the purposes and conduct of his new 
ally the Earl of Etherington. 

That young nobleman had seen Miss Mowbray, had declared 
his high sstisfaction, had warmly and voluntarily renewed the 
proposal which he had made ere she was yet known to him — 
and yet, far from seeking an opportunity to be introduced to 
her, he had even left the party abruptly, in order to avoid the 
necessary intercourse which must there have taken place between 
them. His lordship’s flirtation with Lady Binks had not escaped 


ST. JiONAJV'S WELL. 


229 

the attention of the sagacious Mowbray — her ladyship also had 
been in a hurry to leave Shaws Castle ; and Mowbray promised 
to himself to discover the nature of this connection through Mrs. 
Gingham, her ladyship’s attendant, or otherwise ; vowing deeply, 
at the same time, that no peer in the realm should make an 
affectation of addressing Miss Mowbray a cloak for another and 
more secret intrigue. But his doubts on this subject were in 
great measure removed by the arrival of one of Lord Ethering- 
ton’s grooms with the following letter : — • 

“ My dear Mowbray, 

“ You would naturally be surprised at my escape from the 
table yesterday before you returned to it, or your lovely sister 
had graced it with her presence. I must confess my folly ; and 
I may do so the more boldly, for, as the footing on which I first 
opened this treaty was not a very romantic one, you will scarce 
suspect me of wishing to render it such. But I did in reality 
feel, during the whole of yesterday, a reluctance which I cannot 
express, to be presented to the lady on whose favor the happi- 
ness of my future life is to depend, upon such a public occasion, 
and in the. presence of so promiscuous a company. I had my 
mask, indeed, to wear while in the promenade, but, of course, 
that was to be laid aside at table, and, consequently, I must 
have gone through the ceremony of introduction ; a most inter- 
esting moment, which I was desirous to defer till a fitter season. 
I trust you will permit me to call upon you at Shaws Castle 
this morning, in the hope — the anxious hope — of being allowed 
to pay my duty to Miss Mowbray, and apologize for not waiting 
upon her yesterday. I expect your answer with the utmost im- 
patience, being always yours, etc. etc. etc. 

“ Etherington.” 

“ This,” said St. Ronan’s to himself, as he folded up the 
letter deliberately, after having twice read it over, “ seems all 
fair and above-board ; I could not wish anything more explicit ; 
and moreover, it puts into black and white, as old Mick would 
say, what only rested before on our private conversation. An 
especial cure for the headache, such a billet as this in a 
morning.” 

So saying he sat him down and wrote an answer, expressing 
the pleasure he should have in seeing his lordship as soon as 
he thought proper. He watched even the departure of the 
groom, and beheld him gallop off, with the speed of one who 
knows that his quick return was expected by an impatient 
master. 


230 


ST. RONAA^^S WELL. 


Mowbray remained for a few minutes by himself, and re- 
flected with delight upon the probable consequences of this 
match ; — the advancement of his sister — and, above all, the vari- 
ous advantages which must necessarily accrue to himself, by so 
close an alliance with one whom he had good reason to think 
deep in the secret^ and capable of rendering him the most material 
assistance in his speculations , on the turf, and in the sporting 
world. He then sent a servant to let Miss Mowbray know that 
he intended to breakfast with her. 

“ I suppose, John,” said Clara, as her brother entered the 
apartment, “ you are glad of a weaker cup this morning than 
those you were drinking last night — you were carousing till 
after the first cock.” 

“ Yes,” said Mowbray, “ that sandbed, old MacTurk, upon 
whom whole hogsheads make no impression, did make a bad 
boy of me — but the day is over, and they will scarce catch me 
in such another scrape. — What did you think of the masks ? ” 

“ Supported as well,” said Clara, “ as such folk support the 
disguise of gentlemen and ladies during life ; and that is, with 
a great deal of bustle, and very little propriety.” 

“ I saw only one good mask there, and that \vas a .Spaniard,” 
said her brother. 

“ Oh, I saw him too,” answered Clara ; “ but he wore his 
visor on. An old Indian merchant, or sqnie such thing, seemed 
to me a better character — the Spaniard didmothing but stalk 
about and twangle his guitar, for the amusement of my Lady 
Binks, as I think.” , . , 

“ He is a very clever fellow, though, , that same Spaniard,” 
rejoined Mowbray — ‘‘ Can you guess who, he is,? ” , 

“No, indeed; nor shall I take the trouble of trying. To 
set to guessing about it were as bad as seeing the whole 
mummery over again.” 

“ Well, replied her brother, “ you will allow one thing at 
least — Bottom was well acted — you cannot deny that.” 

“ Yes,” replied Clara, “ that worthy really deserved to wear 
his ass’s head to the end of the chapter — but what of him ? ” 

“ Only conceive that he should be the very same person with 
that handsome Spaniard,” replied Mowbray. 

“ Then there is one fool fewer than I thought there was.” 
replied Clara with the greatest indifference. 

Her brother bit his lip. 

“ Clara,” he said, “ I believe you are an excellent good girl, 
and clever to boot, but pray do not set up for wit and oddity ; 
there is nothing in life so intolerable as pretending to think 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


231 

differently from other people. — That gentleman was the Earl of 
Etherington.’’ 

This annunciation, though made in what was meant to be 
an imposing tone, had no impression on Clara. 

“ I hope he plays the peer better than the Hidalgo,” she 
replied, carelessly. 

“ Yes,” answered Mowbray, “ he is one of the handsomest 
men of the time, and decidedly fashionable — you will like him 
much when you see him in private.” 

It is of little consequence whether I do or no,” answered 
Clara. 

“ You mistake the matter,” said Mowbray gravely ; “ it may 
be of considerable consequence.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Clara, with a smile ; “ I must suppose my- 
self, then, too important a person not to make my approbation 
necessary to one of your first-rates. He cannot pretend to pass 
muster at St. Ronan’s without it. — Well, I will depute my 
authority to Lady Binks, and she shall pass your new recruits 
instead of me.” 

“ This is all nonsense, Clara,” said Mowbray. “ Lord Ether- 
ington calls here this very morning, and wishes to be made 
known to you. I expect you will receive him as a particular 
friend of mine.” 

“ With all my heart — so you will engage, after this visit, 
to keep him down with your other particular friends at the 
Well. — You know it is a bargain that you bring neither buck 
nor pointer into my parlor — the one worries my cat, and the 
other my temper.” 

“You mistake me entirely, Clara — this is a very different 
visitor from any I have ever introduced to you. I expect to 
see him often here, and I liope you and he will be better friends 
than you think of. I have more reasons for wishing this than 
I have now time to tell you.” 

Clara remained silent for an instant, then looked at her 
brother with an anxious and scrutinizing glance, as if she 
wished to penetrate into his inmost purpose. 

“ If I thought ” — she said, after a minute’s consideration, 
and with an altered and disturbed tone ; “ but no — I will not 
think that Heaven intends me such a blow — least of all, that 
it should come from your hands.” She walked hastily to the 
window, and threw it open — then shut it again, and returned 
to her seat, saying, with a constrained smile, “ May Heaven 
forgive you, brother, but you frightened me heartily.” 

“ I do not mean to do so, Clara,” said Mowbray, who saw 
the necessity of soothing her : “ I only alluded in joke to those 


ST, TONAN^S WELL, 


232 

chances that are never out of other girls’ heads, though you 
never seem to calculate on them.” 

“ I wish you, my dear John,” said Clara struggling again to 
regain entire composure, I wish you would profit by my 
example, and give up the science of chance also — it will not 
avail you.” 

“ How d’ye know that ? — I’ll show you the contrary, you 
silly wench,” answered Mowbray — “ Here is a banker’s bill, 
payable to your own order, for the cash you lent me, and some- 
thing over — don’t let old Mick have the fingering, but let Bind- 
loose manage it for you — he is the honester man between two 
d — d knaves.” 

“Will not you, brother, send it to the man Bindloose your- 
self ? ” 

“ No, — no,” replied Mowbray — “ he might confuse it with 
some of my transactions, and so you forfeit your stake.” 

“ Well, I am glad you are able to pay me, for I want to buy 
Campbell’s new work.” 

“ I wish you joy of your purchase — but don’t scratch me 
for not caring about it. — I know as little of books as you of the 
long odds. And come now, be serious, and tell me if you will 
be a good girl — lay aside your whims, and receive this English 
young nobleman like a lady as you are 1 ” 

“ That were easy,” said Clara — “ but — but — Pray, ask no 
more of me than just to see him. — Say to him at once, I am a 
poor creature in body, in mind, in spirits, in temper, in under- 
standing — above all, say that I can receive him only once.” 

“ I shall say no such thing,” said Mowbray, bluntly ; “ it is 
good to be plain with you at once. — I thought of putting off 
this discussion — but since it must come, the sooner it is over 
the better. — You are to understand, Clara Mowbray, that Lord 
Etherington has a particular view in this visit, and that his view 
has my full sanction and approbation.” 

“ I thought so,” said Clara, in the same altered tone of 
voice in which she had before spoken ; “ my mind foreboded 
this last of misfortunes ! — But, Mowbray, you have no child 
before you — I neither will nor can see this nobleman.” 

“ How ! ” exclaimed Mowbray, fiercely ; “ do you dare re- 
turn me so peremptory an answer ? — Think better of it, for if 
we differ, you will find you have the worst of the game.” 

“ Rely upon it,” she continued, with more vehemence, “ I 
will see him nor no man upon the footing you mention — my 
resolution is taken, and threats and entreaties will prove 
equally unavailing.” 

“ Upon my word, madam,” said Mowbray, “ you have, for a 


ST. TOATAJV^S WELL. 


233 


modest and retired young lady, plucked up a goodly spirit of 
your own ! — But you shall find mine equals it. If you do not 
agree to see my friend Lord Etherington, ay, and to receive 
him with the politeness due to the consideration I entertain for 
him, by Heaven ! Clara, I will no longer regard you as my father’s 
daughter. — 'I'hink what you are giving up — the affection and 
protection of a brother — and for what ? — merely for an idle 
point of etiquette. — You cannot, I suppose, even in the workings 
of your romantic brain, imagine that the days of Clarissa Har- 
lowe and Harriet Byron are come back again, when women 
were married by main force } and it is monstrous vanity in you 
to suppose that Lord Etheririgton, since he has honored you 
with any thoughts at all, will not be satisfied with a proper and 
civil refusal — You are no such prize, methinks, that the days 
of romance are to come back for you.” 

I care not what days they are,” said Clara — “ I tell you I 
will not see Lord Etherington, or any one else, upon such pre- 
liminaries as you have stated — I cannot- — I will not — and I 
ought not. — Had you meant me to receive him, which can be a 
matter of no consequence whatever, you should have left him 
on the footing of an ordinary visitor — as it is, I will not see 
him.” 

“ You shall see and hear him both,” said Mowbray ; “ you 
shall find me as obstinate as you are — as willing to forget I am 
a brother, as you to forget that you have one.” 

“ It is time, then,” replied Clara, “ that this house, once our 
father’s, should no longer hold us both. I can provide for my- 
self and may God bless you ! ” 

You take it coolly, madam,” said her brother, walking 
through the apartment with much anxiety both of look and 
gesture. 

“ I do,” she answered ; “ for it is what I have often fore- 
seen — Yes, brother, I have often foreseen that you would make 
your sister the subject of your plots and schemes, so soon as 
other stakes failed you. That hour is come, and I am, as you 
see, prepared to meet it.” 

“And where may you propose to retire to ? ” said Mowbray. 
“ I think that I, your only relation and natural guardian, have 
a right to know that — my honor and that of my family is 
concerned.” 

“Your honor!” she retorted, with a keen glance at him; 
“your interest, I suppose you mean, is somehow connected 
w'ith the place of my abode. — But keep yourself patient — 'the 
den of the rock, the linn of the brook, should be my choice, 
rather than a palace without my freedom.” 


234 


ST. RONAiV^S WELL. 


‘‘ Vou are mistaken, however,” said Mowbray, sternly, “ if 
you hope to enjoy more freedom than I think you capable of 
making a good use of. The law authorizes, and reason, and 
even affection, require that you should be put under restraint 
for your own safety, and that of your character. You roamed 
the woods a little too much in my father’s time, if all stories be 
true.” 

“ I did — I did indeed, Mowbray,” said Clara, weeping ; 
“ God pity me and forgive you for upbraiding me with my 
state of mind — I know I cannot sometimes trust my own judg- 
ment ; but is it for you to remind me of this ? ” 

Mowbray was at once softened and embarrasseo. 

“ What folly is this ? ” he said ; “ you say the most cutting 
things to me — are ready to fly from my house — and when I am 
provoked to make an angry answer, you burst into tears ! ” 

‘‘ Say you did not mean what you said, my dearest brother !” 
exclaimed Clara ; “ Oh say you did not mean it ! — Do not take 
my liberty from me— it is all I have left, and, God knows, it is 
a poor comfort in the sorrows I undergo. I will put a fair face 
on everything — will go down to the Well — will wear what you 
please, and say what you please — but oh ! leave me the liberty 
of my solitude here — 'let me weep alone in the house of my 
father — and do not force a broken-hearted sister to lay her 
death at your door. — My span must be a brief one, but let not 
your hand shake the sand-glass ! — Disturb me not — let me pass 
quietly — I do not ask this so much for my sake as for your 
own. I would have you think of me, sometimes, Mowbray, 
after I am gone, and without the bitter reflections which the 
recollection of harsh usage will assuredly bring with it. Pity 
me, were it but for your own sake. — -I have deserved nothing 
but compassion at your hand — There are but two of us on 
earth, why should we make each other miserable ? ” 

She accompanied these entreaties with a flood of tears, and 
the most heart-bursting sobs. Mowbray knew not what to de- 
termine. On the one hand he was bound by his promise to 
the Earl ; on the other, his sister was in no condition to re- 
ceive such a visitor ; nay, it was most probable, that if he 
adopted the strong measure of compelling her to receive him, 
her behavior would probably be such as totally to break off the 
projected match, on the success of which he had founded so 
many castles in the air. In this dilemma, he had again re- 
course to argument. 

“ Clara,” he said, “ I am, as I have repeatedly said, your 
only relation and guardian — if there be any real reason why 
you ought not to receive, and, at least, make a civil reply to 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


235 


such a negotiation as the Earl of Etherington has thought fit 
to open, surely I ought to be intrusted with it. You enjoyed 
far too much of that liberty which you seem to prize so highly 
during my father’s lifetime — in the last years of it at least — - 
have 3 ^ou formed any foolish attachment during that time, 
which now prevents you from receiving such a visit as Lord 
Etherington has threatened ? ” 

“ Threatened ! — the expression is well chosen,” said Miss 
Mowbray ; “ and nothing can be more dreadful than such a 
threat, excepting its accomplishment.” 

“ I am glad your spirits are reviving,” replied her brother ; 
“ but that is no answer to my question.” 

“ Is it necessary,” said Clara, “that one must have actually 
some engagement or entanglement, to make them unwilling to 
be given in marriage, or even to be pestered upon such a sub- 
ject ) — Many young men declare they intend to die bachelors, 
why may not 1 be permitted to commence old maid at three- 
and-twenty .? — Let me do so, like a kind brother, and there 
were never nephews and nieces so petted and so scolded, so 
nursed and so cuffed by a maiden aunt, as your children, when 
you have them, shall be by aunt Clara.” 

“ And why not say all this to Lord Etherington ? ” said 
Mowbray ; “ wait until he propose such a terrible bugbear as 
matrimony, before you refuse to receive him. Who knows, the 
whim that he hinted at may have passed away — he was, as you 
say, flirting with Lady Binks, and her ladyship has a good deal 
of address, as well as beauty.” 

“ Heaven improve both (in an honest way), if she will but 
keep his lordship to herself ! ” said Clara. 

“ Well, then,” continued her brother, “ things standing thus, 
I do not think you will have much trouble with his lordship — 
no more, perhaps, than just to give him a civil denial. After 
having spoken on such a subject to a man of my condition, he 
cannot well break off without you give him an apology.” 

“ If that is all,” said Clara, “ he shall, as soon as he gives 
me an opportunity, receive such an answer as will leave him at 
liberty to woo any one whatsoever of Eve’s daughters, except- 
ing Clara Mowbray. Methinks I am so eager to set the captive 
free, that I now wish as much for his lordship’s appearance as 
I feared it a little while since.” 

“ Nay, nay, but let us go fair and softly,” said her brother. 

“ You are not to refuse him before he asks the question.” 

“ Certainly,” said Clara ; “ but I well know how to manage 
tliat — he shall never ask the question at all. I will restore 


ST. J?OJVAJV^S WELL, 


236 

Lady Binks’s admirer, without accepting so much as a civility 
in ransom.” 

“ Worse and worse, Clara,” answered Mowbray ; “ you are 
to remember he is my friend and guest, and he must not be 
affronted in my house. Leave things to themselves. — Besides, 
consider an instant, Clara — had you not better take a little 
time for reflection in this case ? The offer is a splendid one — 
title — fortune — and, what is more, a fortune which you will be 
well entitled to share largely in.” 

“ This is beyond our implied treaty,” said Clara. “ I have 
yielded more than ever I thought I should have done, when I 
agreed that this Earl should be introduced to me on the foot- 
ing of a common visitor ; and now you talk favorably of his 
pretensions. This is an encroachment, Mowbray, and now I 
shall relapse into my obstinacy, and refuse to see him at all.” 

“ Do as you will,” replied Mowbray, sensible that it was 
only by working on her affections that he had any chance of 
carrying a point against her inclination, — Do as you will, my 
dear Clara ; but for Heaven’s sake, wipe your eyes.” 

“ And behave myself,” said she, trying to smile as she obeyed 
him, — “ behave myself, you would say, like folks of this world ; 
but the quotation is lost on you, who never read either Prior or 
Shakespeare,” 

“ 1 thank Heaven for that,” said Mowbray. “ I have enough 
to burden my brain, without carrying such a lumber of rhymes 
in it as you and Lady Pen do. — Come, that is right ; go to the 
mirror, and make yourself decent.” 

A woman must be much borne down indeed by pain and 
suffering, when she loses all respect for her external appearance. 
The madwoman in Bedlam wears her garland of straw with a 
certain air of pretension ; and we have seen a widow whom we 
knew to be most sincerely affected by a recent deprivation, 
whose weeds, nevertheless, were arranged with a dolorous degree 
of grace, which amounted almost to coquetry. Clara Mowbray 
had also, negligent as she seemed to be of appearances, her own 
art of the toilet, although of the most rapid and most simple 
character. She took off her little riding-hat, and, unbinding a 
lace of Indian gold which retained her locks, shook them in 
dark and glossy profusion over her very handsome form, which 
they overshadowed down to her slender waist ; and while her 
brother stood looking on her with a mixture of pride, affection, 
and compassion, she arranged them with a large comb, and 
without the assistance of any femme (Tatours, wove them, in the 
course of a few minutes, into such a natural head-dress as we 
see on the statues of the Grecian nymphs. 


ST. /^OJVAJ\r^S WELL, 


237 

“ Now let me but find my best muff,” she said, “ come prince 
and peer, I shall be ready to receive them.” 

“ Pshaw ! your muff — who has heard of such a thing these 
twenty years ? Muffs were out of fashion before you were 
born.” 

“ No matter, John,” replied his sister ; “ when a woman 
wears a muff, especially a determined old maid like myself, it 
is a sign she has no intentions to scratch ; and therefore the 
muff serves all the' purposes of a white flag, and prevents the 
necessity of drawing on a glove, so prudentially recommended 
by the motto of our cousins, the M‘lntoshes.” * 

“ Be it as you will, then,” said Mowbray ; “ for other than 
you do will it, you will not suffer it to be. — But how is this ? 
another billet ? — We are in request this morning.” 

“ Now, Heaven send his lordship may have judiciously con> 
sidered all the risks which he is sure to encounter on this 
charmed ground, and resolved to leave his adventure unat- 
tempted,” said Miss Mowbray. 

Her brother glanced a look of displeasure at her as he broke 
the seal of the letter, which was addressed to him with the 
words, “ Haste and secrecy,” written on the envelope. The 
contents, which greatly surprised him, we remit to the com- 
mencement of the next chapter. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. 

PRIVATE INFORMATION. 

Ope this letter, 

I can produce a champion that will prove 
What is avouched there. 

King Lear. 

The billet which Mowbray received, and read in his sister’s 
presence, contained these words : — 

“ Sir, 

“ Clara Mowbray has few friends — none, perhaps, except- 
ing yourself, in right of blood, and the writer of this letter, by 
right of the fondest, truest, and most disinterested attachment 
that ever man bore to woman. 1 am thus explicit with you, 

* The well-known crest of this ancient race is a cat rampant, with a 
motto bearing the caution— Touch not the cat, but be out^ or with 
€ut) the glove.” 


ST. ROJVAAT^S WELL. 


238 

because, though it is unlikely that I should ever again see or 
speak to your sister, I am desirous that you should be clearly 
acquainted with the cause of that interest, which I must always, 
even to my dying breath, take in her affairs. 

“The person, calling himself Lord Etherington, is, I am 
aware, in the neighborhood of Shaws Castle, with the inten- 
tion of paying his addresses to Miss Mowbray ; and it is easy 
for me to foresee, arguing according to the ordinary vie.ws of 
mankind, that he may place his proposals in such a light as 
may make them seem highly desirable. But ere you give this 
person the encouragement which his offers may seem to deserve, 
please to inquire whether his fortune is certain, or his rank 
indisputable ; and be not satisfied with light evidence on either 
point. A man may be in possession of an estate and title, to 
which he has no better right than his own rapacity and forward- 
ness of assumption ; and supposing Mr. Mowbray jealous, as 
he must be, of the honor of his family, the alliance of such a 
one cannot but bring disgrace. This comes from one who will 
make good what he has written.” 

On the first perusal of a billet so extraordinary, Mowbray 
was inclined to set it down to the malice of some of the people 
at the Well, anonymous letters being no uncommon resource 
of the small wits who frequent such places of general resort, 
as a species of deception safely and easily executed, and well 
calculated to produce much mischief and confusion. But upon 
closer consideration, he was shaken in his opinion, and, starting 
suddenly from the reverie into which he had fallen, asked for 
the messenger who had brought the letter. “ He was in the 
hall,” the servant thought, and Mowbray ran to the hall. No 
— the messenger was not there, but Mowbray might see his 
back as he walked up the avenue. — He hallo’d — no answer was 
returned — he ran after the fellow, whose appearance was that 
of a countryman. The man quickened his pace as he saw him- 
self pursued, and when he got out of the avenue, threw himself 
into one of the numerous bypaths which wanderers, who strayed 
in quest of nuts, or for the sake of exercise, had made in 
various directions through the extensive copse which surrounded 
the Castle, and were doubtless the reason of its acquiring the 
name of Shaws, which signifies, in the Scottish dialect, a wood 
of this description. 

Irritated by the man’s obvious desire to avoid him, and 
naturally obstinate in all his resolutions, Mowbray pursued for 
a considerable way, until he fairly lost breath ; and the flier 
having been long out of sight, he recollected at length that his 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


239 

engagement with the Earl of Etherington required his attend- 
ance at the Castle. 

The young lord, indeed, had arrived at Shaws Castle, so few 
minutes after Mowbray’s departure, that it was wonderful they 
had not met in the aVenue. The servant to whom he applied, 
conceiving that his master must return instantly, as he had gone 
out without his hat, ushered the Earl, without further ceremony, 
into the breakfast-room, where Clara was seated upon one of 
window-seats, so busily employed with a book, or perhaps with 
her own thoughts while she held a book in her hands, that she 
scarce raised her head, until Lord Etherington, advancing, pro- 
nounced the words, “ Miss Mowbray.” A start, and a loud 
scream, announced her deadly alarm, and these were repeated 
as he made one pace nearer, and in a firmer accent said, 
“ Clara.” 

“ No nearer — no nearer,” she exclaimed, “ if you would have 
me look upon you and live ! ” Lord Etherington remained 
standing, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat, while 
with incredible rapidity she poured out her hurried entreaties 
that he would begone, sometimes addressing him as a real per- 
sonage, sometimes, and more frequently, as a delusive phantom, 
the offspring of her own excited imagination. “ I knew it,” 
she muttered, “ I knew what would happen, if my thoughts 
were forced into that fearful channel. — Speak to me, brother ! 
speak to me while I have reason left, and tell me that what 
stands before me is but an empty shadow ! But it is no 
shadow — ft remains before me in all the lineaments of mortal 
substance ! ” 

“ Clara,” said the Earl, with a firm, yet softened voice, 
“ collect and compose yourself. I am, indeed, no shadow — I 
am a much-injured man, come to demand rights which have 
been unjustly withheld from me. I am now armed with power 
as well as justice, and my claims shall be heard.” 

“ Never — never ! ” replied Clara Mowbray ; ” since extremity 
is my portion, let extremity give me courage. — You have no 
rights — none — I know you not, and I defy you.” 

Defvme not, Clara Mowbray,” answered the Earl, in a tone 
and with a manner — how different from those which delighted 
society ! for now he was solemn, tragic, and almost stern, like 
the judge when he passes sentence upon a criminal. ” Defy 
me not,” he repeated. “ I am your fate, and it rests with you 
to make me a kind or severe one.” 

“ Dare you speak thus ? ” said Clara, her eyes flashing with 
anger, while her lips grew white, and quivered for fear— “ Dare 
you speak thus, and remember that the same heaven is above 


240 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


our heads, to which you so solemnly vowed you would never see 
me more without my own consent ? ” 

“ That vow was conditional — Francis Tyrrel, as he calls 
himself, swore the same — hath he not seen you ? ” He fixed a 
piercing look on her ; “ He has — you dare not disown it ! — And 
shall an oath, which to him is but a cobweb, be to me a shackle 
of iron ? ” 

“Alasl.it was but for a moment,” said Miss Mowbray, 
sinking in courage, and drooping her head as she spoke. 

“ Were it but the twentieth part of an instant — the least 
conceivable space of subdivided time — still, you did meet — he 
saw you — you spoke to him. And me also you must see — me 
also you must hear ! Or I will first claim you for my own in 
the face of the world ; and, having vindicated my rights, I will 
seek out and extinguish the wretched rival who has dared to 
interfere with them.” 

“ Can you speak thus ? ” said Clara — “ can you so burst 
through the ties of nature ? — Have you a heart } ” 

“ I have ; and it shall be moulded like wax to your slightest 
wishes, if you agree to do me justice ; but not granite, nor 
aught else that nature has of hardest, will be more inflexible if 
you continue a useless opposition ! — Clara Mowbray, I am your 
Fate.” 

“ Not so, proud man,” said Clara, rising ; “ God gave not 
one potsherd the power to break another, save by his divine 
permission — my fate is in the will of Him, without whose will 
even a sparrow falls not to the ground. — Begone — I am strong 
in faith of heavenly protection.” 

“ Do you speak thus in sincerity ? ” said the Earl of Ether- 
ington ; “consider first what is the prospect before you. I 
stand here in no doubtful or ambiguous character — I offer not 
the mere name of a husband — propose to you not an humble lot 
of obscurity and hardship, with fears for the past, and doubts 
for the future ; yet there was a time when to a suit like this you 
could listen favorably. — I stand high among the nobles of the 
country, and offer you, as my bride, your share in my honors, 
and in the wealth which becomes them. Your brother is my 
friend and favors my suit. 1 will raise from the ground, and 
once more render illustrious, your ancient house — your motions 
shall be regulated by your wishes, even by your caprices — I 
will even carry my self-denial so far, that you shall, should you 
insist on so severe a measure, have your own residence, your 
own establishment, and without intrusion on my part, until the 
most devoted love, the most unceasing attentions, shall make 
way on your inflexible disposition. — -All this I will consent to 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


241 


for the future — all that is past shall be concealed from the 
public — But mine, Clara Mowbray, you must be.” 

“ Never — never ! ” she said, with increasing vehemence. 
“ I can but repeat a negative, but it shall have all the force of 
an oath. — Your rank is nothing to me — your fortune I scorn — • 
my brother has no right, by the law of Scotland, or of nature, 
to compel my inclinations. — I detest your treachery, and I 
scorn the advantage you propose to attain by it. — Should the 
law give you my hand, it would but award you that of a corpse.” 

“ Alas ! Clara,” said the Earl, “ you do but flutter in the 
net ; but I will urge you no further now — there is another en- 
counter before me.” 

He was turning away, when Clara, springing forward, caught 
him by the arm, and repeated, in a low and impressive voice, 
the commandment, — “ Thou shalt do no murder ! ” 

Fear not any violence,” he said, softening his voice, and 
attempting to take her hand, “ but what may flow from your 
own severity. — Francis is safe from me, unless you are altogether 
unreasonable.— Allow me but what you cannot deny to any friend 
of your brother, the power of seeing you at times — suspend at 
least the impetuosity of your dislike to me, and I will on my 
part modify the current of my just and otherwise uncontrolable 
resentment.” 

Clara, extricating herself, and retreating from him, only 
replied, “ There is a Heaven above us, and there shall be 
judged opr actions toward each other ! You abuse a power 
most treacherously obtained — you break a heart that never did 
you wrong — you seek an alliance with a wretch who only wishes 
to be wedded to her grave. — If my brother brings you hither, I 
cannot help it— and if your coming prevents bloody and unnatural 
violence, it is so far well. — But by my consent you come not ; 
and were the choice mine, I would rather be struck with life- 
long blindness, than that my eyes should again open on your 
person — rather that my ears were stuffed with the earth of the 
grave, than that they should again hear your voice ! ” 

The Earl of Etherington smiled proudly, and replied, “ Even 
this, madam, I can hear without resentment. Anxious and 
careful as you are to deprive your compliance of every grace, 
and of every kindness, I receive the permission to wait on you, 
as I interpret your words.” 

“ Ho not so interpret them,” she replied ; “ I do but submit 
to your presence as an unavoidable evil. Heaven be my 
witness, that, were it not to prevent greater and more desperate 
evil, I would not even so far acquiesce.” 

“ Let acquiescence, then, be the word,” he said ; “ and so 


242 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


thankful will I be, even for your acquiescence, Miss Mowbray, 
that all shall remain private, which I conceive you do not wish 
to be disclosed ; and, unless absolutely compelled to it in self- 
defence, you may rely, no violence will be resorted to by me in 
any quarter. — I relieve you from my presence.” 

So saying, he withdrew from the apartment. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. 

EXPLANATORY. 

By your leave, gentle wax. 

Shakespeare. 

In the hall of Shaws Castle the Earl of Etherington met Mow- 
bray, returned from his fruitless chase after the bearer of the 
anonymous epistle before recited ; and who had but just learned, 
on his return, that the Earl of Etherington was with his sister. 
There was a degree of mutual confusion when they met ; for 
Mowbray had the contents of the anonymous letter fresh in his 
mind, and Lord Etherington, notwithstanding all the coolness 
which he endeavored to maintain, had not gone through the 
scene with Clara without discomposure. Mowbray asked the 
Earl whether he had seen his sister, and invited him, at the 
same time, to return to the parlor ; and his lordship replied, 
in a tone as indifferent as he could assume, that he had enjoyed 
the honor of the lady’s company for several minutes, and would 
not now intrude further upon Miss Mowbray’s patience. 

“ You have had such a reception as was agreeable, my lord, I 
trust ? ” said Mowbray. “ I hope that Clara did the honors of 
the house with propriety during my absence ? ” 

“ Miss Mowbray seemed a little fluttered with my sudden 
appearance,” said the Earl ; “ the servant showed me in rather 
abruptly ; and, circumstanced as we were, there is always 
awkwardness in a first meeting, where there is no third party 
to act as master of the ceremonies. I suspect, from the lady’s 
looks, that you have not quite kept my secret, my good friend. 
I myself, too, felt a little consciousness in approaching 'Miss 
Mowbray — but it is over now ; and the ice being fairly broken, 
I hope to have other and more convenient opportunities to 
improve the advantage I have just gained in acquiring your 
lovely sister’s personal acquaintance.” 


^• 7 '. RONAN^S IVA'LL. 


243 

“ So be it,” said Mowbray ; “ but, as you declare for leaving 
the Castle just now, I must first speak a single word with your 
lordship, for which this place is not altogether convenient.” 

“ I can have no objections, my dear Jack,” said Etherington, 
following him with a thrill of conscious feeling, somewhat 
perhaps like that of the spider when he perceives his deceitful 
web is threatened with injury, and sits balanced in the centre, 
watching every point, and uncertain which he may be called 
upon first to defend. Such is one part, and not the slightest 
part, of the penance which never fails to wait on those, who, 
abandoning the “ fair play of the world,” endeavor to work out 
their purposes by a process of deception and intrigue. 

“ My lord,” said Mowbray, when they had entered a little 
apartment, in w^hich the latter kept his guns, fishing-tackle, and 
other implements of sport, “ you have played on the square with 
me ; nay, more — I am bound to allow you have given me great 
odds. I am therefore not entitled to hear any reports to the 
prejudice of your lordship’s character, without instantly com- 
municating them. There is an anonymous letter which I have 
just received. Perhaps your lordship may know the hand, and 
thus be enabled to detect the writer.” 

“ I do know the hand,” said the Earl, as he received the note 
from Mowbray ; “ and, allow me to say, it is the only one which 
could have dared to frame any calumny to my prejudice. I 
hope, Mr. Mowbray, it is impossible for you to consider this 
infamous charge as anything but a falsehood.” 

“ My placing it in your lordship’s hands, without further in- 
quiry, is a sufficient proof that I hold it such, my lord ; at the 
same time that I cannot doubt for a moment that your lordship 
has it in your power to overthrow so frail a calumny by the 
most satisfactory evidence.” 

Unquestionably I can, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl ; “for, 
besides my being in full j 30 ssession of the estate and title of my 
father, the late Earl of Etherington, I have my father’s contract 
of marriage, my own certificate of baptism, and the evidence of 
the whole country to establish my right. All these shall be 
produced with the least delay possible. You will not think it 
surprising that one does not travel with this sort of documents 
in one’s post-chaise.” 

“ Certainly not, my lord,” said Mowbray ; “ it is sufficient 
they are forthcoming when called for. But, may I inquire, my 
lord, who the writer of this letter is, and whether he has any 
particular spleen to gratify by this very impudent assertion, 
which is so easily capable of being disproved ? ” 

“ He is,” said Etherington, “ or, at least, has the reputation 


244 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


of being, I am sorry to say, a near — a very near relation of my 
own — in fact, a brother by the father’s side, but illegitimate. — 
My father w^as fond of him — I loved him also, for he has un- 
commonly fine parts, and is accounted highly accomplished. 
But there is a train of something irregular in his mind, — a vein, 
in short, of madness, which breaks out in the usual manner, 
rendering the poor young man a dupe to vain imaginations of 
his own dignity and grandeur, which is perhaps the most ordi- 
nary effect of insanity, and inspiring the deepest aversion against 
his nearest relatives and against myself in particular. He is a 
man extremely plausible, both in speech and manners ; so much 
so, that many of my friends think there is more vice than in- 
sanity in the irregularities which he commits ; but I may, I 
hope, be forgiven, if I have formed a milder judgment of one 
supposed to be my father’s son. Indeed, I cannot help being 
sorry for poor Frank, who might have made a very distinguished 
figure in the world.” 

“ May I ask the gentleman’s name, my lord ? ” said Mow- 
bray. 

“ My father’s indulgence gave him our family name of Tyrrel, 
with his own Christian name Francis ; but his proper name, to 
which alone he has a right, is Martigny.” 

“ Francis Tyrrel ! ” exclaimed Mowbray ; “ why, that is the 
name of the very person who made some disturbance at the 
Well just before your lordship arrived. — You mayjiave seen an 
advertisement — a sort of placard.” 

“ I have, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl. “ Spare me on that 
subject, if you please — it has formed a strong reason why I did 
not mention my connection with this unhappy man before ; but 
it is no unusual thing for persons, whose imaginations are 
excited, to rush into causeless quarrels, and then to make dis- 
creditable retreats from them.” 

“ Or,” said Mr. Mowbray, “ he may have , after all, been 
prevented from reaching the place of rendezvous — it was that 
very day on which your lordship, I think, received your wound ; 
and, if I mistake not, you hit the man from whom you got the 
hurt.” 

“ Mowbray,” said Lord Etherington, lowering his voice, and 
taking him by the arm, “ it is true that I did so, and truly 
glad am I to observe, that, whatever might have been the con- 
sequences of such an accident, they cannot have been serious. — 
It struck me afterward, that the man by whom I was so 
strangely assaulted had some resemblance to the unfortunate 
Tyrrel — but I had not seen him for years. — At any rate, he can- 


ST. J^ONAN^S WELL. 


245 

not have been much hurt, sii/ce he is now able to resume his 
intrigues to the prejudice of my character.” 

Your lordship views the thing with a firm eye,” said 
Mowbray; ‘‘ firmer than 1 think most people would be able to 
command, who had so narrow a chance of a scrape so uncoim 
fortable.” 

“ Why, I am, in the first place, by no means sure that the 
risk existed,” said the Earl of Etherington ; “ for, as I have 
often told you, 1 had but a very transient glimpse of the ruffian ; 
and, in the second place, I am sure that no permanent bad 
consequences have ensued. 1 am too old a fox-hunter to be 
afraid of a leap after it is cleared, as they tell of the fellow who 
fainted in the morning at the sight of the precipice he had 
clambered over when he was drunk on the night before. The 
man who wrote that letter,” touching it with his finger, “ is 
alive, and able to threaten me ; and if he did come to any hurt 
from my hand, it was in the act of attempting my life, of which 
I shall carry the mark to my grave.” 

“ Nay, 1 am far from blaming your lordship,” said Mowbray, 
“ for what you did in self-defence, but the circumstance might 
have turned out very unpleasant. — May 1 ask what you intend 
to do with this unfortunate gentleman, who is in all probability 
in the neighborhood ? ” 

“ I must’ first discover the place of his retreat,” said Lord 
Etherington, “ and then consider what is to be done, both for 
his safety, poor fellow, and my own. It is probable, too, that he 
may find sharpers to prey upon what fortune he still possesses, 
which, I assure you, is sufficient to attract a set of folk, who 
may ruin while they humor him. — May I beg that you, too, 
will be on the outlook, and let me know if you hear or see more 
of him t ” 

“ 1 shall, most certainly, my lord,” answered Mowbray ; 
“ but the only one of his haunts which I know, is the old 
Cleikum Inn, where he chose to take up his residence. He has 
now left it, but perhaps the old crab-fish of a landlady may 
know something of him.” 

“ I will not fail to inquire,” said Lord Etherington ; and, 
with these words, he took a kind farewell of Mowbray, mounted 
his horse, and rode up the avenue. 

“ A cool fellow,” said Mowbray, as he looked after him, “a 
d — d cool fellow, this brother-in-law of mine, that is to be — 
takes a shot at his father’s son with as little remorse as at a 
black-cock — what would he do with me, were we to quarrel ? — 
Well, I can snuff a candle and strike out the ace of hearts ; and 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


246 

SO, should things go wrong, he has no Jack Raw to deal with, 
but Jack Mowbray.” 

Meanwhile the Earl of Etherington hastened home to his 
own apartments at the Hotel ; and, not entirely pleased with 
the events of the day, commenced a letter to his correspondent, 
agent, and confidant. Captain Jekvl, which we have fortunately 
the means of presenting to our readers : — 

Friend Harry, 

“ They say a falling house is best known by the rats leav- 
ing it — a fallen state, by the desertion of confederates and 
allies — and a fallen man by the desertion of his friends. If this 
be true augury, your last letter may be considered as ominous of 
my breaking down. Methinks, you have gone far enough, and 
shared deep enough with me, to have some confidence in my 
savoirfab'e — some little faith both in my means and manage- 
ment. — What cross-grained fiend has at once inspired you with 
what I suppose you wish me to call politic doubts and scruples 
of conscience, but which I can only regard as symptoms of fear 
and disaffection.? You can have no idea of ‘duels betwixt 
relations so nearly connected ’ — ^and ‘the affair seems very deli- 
cate and intricate ’ — and again, ‘ the matter has never been 
fully explained to you’ — and, moreover, ‘ if you are expected to 
take an active part in the business, it must be when you are 
honored with my full and unreserved confidence, otherwise, 
how could you be of the use to me which L might require?’ 
Such are your expressions. 

“ Now, as to scruples of conscience about near relations and 
so forth, all that has blown by without much mischief, and 
certainly is not likely to occur again — besides, did you never 
hear of friends quarreling before ? And are they are not to exer- 
cise the usual privileges of gentlemen when they do ? More- 
over, how am I to know that this plaguy fellow is actually 
related to me .? — They say it is a wise child knows its own 
father; and I cannot be expected wise enough to know to a 
certainty my father’s son. — So much for relationship.— Then, 
as to full and unreserved confidence — wh}^, Harry, this is just 
as if I were to ask you to look at a watch, and tell what it was 
o’clock and you were to reply, that truly you could not inform 
me, because you had not examined the springs, the counter- 
balances, the wheels, and the whole internal machinery of the 
little timepiece. — But the upshot of the whole is this, — Harry 
Jekyl, who is as sharp a fellow as any other, thinks he has his 
friend Lord Etherington at a deadlock, and that he knows 
already so much of the said noble lord’s history as to oblige 


*$■ 7 : RONAN'S WELL. 


247 


his lordship to *1611 him the whole. And perhaps he not 
unreasonably concludes, that the custody of a whole secret is 
more creditable, and probably more lucrative, than that of a 
half one ; and, in short, he is resolved to make the most of the 
cards in his hand. Another, mine honest Harry, would take 
the trouble to recall to your mind past times and circumstances, 
and conclude with expressing an humble opinion, that if Harry 
Jekyl were asked now to do any service for the noble lord 
aforesaid, Harry had got his reward in his pocket aforehand. 
But I do not argue thus, because I would rather be leagued 
with a friend who assists me with a view to future profit, than 
from respect to benefits already received. The first lies like 
the fox’s scent when on his last legs, increasing every moment ; 
the other is a back-scent, growing colder the longer you follow 
it, until at last it becomes impossible to puzzle it out. I will, 
therefore, submit to the circumstances, and tell you the whole 
story, though somewhat tedious, in hopes that I can conclude 
with such a trail as you will open upon breast-high. 

“ Thus then it was. — Francis, fifth Earl of Etherington, and 
my much honored father, was what is called a very eccentric 
man — that is, he was neither a wise man nor a fool — had too 
much sense to walk into a well, and yet in some of the furious 
fits which he was visited with, I have seen him quite mad 
enough to throw any one else into it. — Men said there was a 
lurking insanity — but it is an ill bird, etc., and I will say no 
more about it. This shatter-brained peer was, in other respects, 
a handsome accomplished man, with an expression somewhat 
haughty, yet singularly pleasing when he chose it — a man, in 
short, who might push his fortune with the fair sex. 

“ Lord Etherington, such as I have described him, being upon 
his travels in France, formed an attachment of the heart — ay, 
and some have pretended, of the hand also, with a certain 
beautiful orphan, Maria de Martigny. Of this union is said to 
have sprung (for I am determined not to be certain on that 
point) that most incommodious person, Francis Tyrrel, as he 
calls himself, but as I would rather call him, Francis Martigny; 
the latter suiting my views, as perhaps the former name agrees 
better with his pretensions. Now, I am too good a son to sub- 
scribe to the alleged regularity of the marriage between my 
right honorable and very good lord father, because my said 
right honorable and very good lord did, on his return to 
England, become wedded,^ in the face of the church, to my very 
affectionate and well-endowed mother, Ann Bulmer of Bulmer 
Hall, from which happy union sprang I, Francis Valentine 
Bulmer Tyrrel, lawful inheritor of my father and mother’s joint 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


248 

estates, as I was the proud possessor of their ancient names. 
But the noble and wealthy pair, though blessed with such a 
pledge of love as myself, lived mighty ill together, and the 
rather, when my right honorable father, sending for this other 
Sosia, this unlucky Francis Tyrrel, senior, from France, insisted 
in the face of propriety, that he should reside in his house, 
and share, in all respects, in the opportunities of education by 
which the real Sosia, Francis Valentine Bulmer Tyrrel, then 
commonly called Lord Oakendale, hath profited in such an 
uncommon degree. 

“ Various were the matrimonial quarrels which arose between 
the honored lord and lady, in consequence of this unseemly 
conjunction of the legitimate and illegitimate ; and to these, 
we, the subjects of the dispute, were sometimes very properly, 
as well as decorously, made the witnesses. On one occasion, 
my right honorable mother, who was a free-spoken lady, found 
the language of her own rank quite inadequate to express the 
strength of her generous feelings, and borrowing from the 
vulgar two emphatic words, applied them to Marie de Martigny, 
and her son, Francis Tyrrel. Never did Earl that ever wore 
coronet fly into a pitch 'of more uncontrolable rage, than did 
my right honorable father ; and, in the ardor of his reply, he 
adopted my mother’s ]')hraseology. to inform her, that if there 
was a whore and bastard connected with his house, it was 
herself and her brat. 

“ I was even then a sharp little fellow, and was incredibly 
struck with the communication, which, in an hour of uncon- 
trolable irritation, had escaped my right honorable father. 
It is true, he instantly gathered himself up again ; and, he 
perhaps recollecting such a word as biga^ny, and my mother, 
on her side, considering the consequences of such a thing as a 
descent from the Countess of Etherington into Mrs. Bulmer, 
neither wife, maid, nor widow, there was an apparent recon- 
ciliation between them, which lasted for some time. But the 
speech remained deeply imprinted on my remembrance ; the 
more so, that once, when I was exerting over my friend, 
Francis Tyrrel, the authority of a legitimate brother, and Lord 
Oakendale, old Cecil, my father’s confidential valet, was so 
much scandalized, as to intimate a possibility that we might one 
day change conditions. These two accidental communications 
seemed to me a key to certain long lectures, with which my 
father used to regale us boys, but me in particular, upon the 
extreme mutability of human affairs, — the disappointment of 
the best grounded hopes and expectations, — and the necessity 
of being so accomplished in all useful branches of knowledge, 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


249 

as might, in case of accidents, supply any defalcation in our 
rank and fortune ; — as if any art or science could make amends 
for the loss of an Earldom, and twelve thousand a year ! All 
this prosing seemed to my anxious mind designed to prepare 
me for some unfortunate change ; and when I was old enough 
to make such private inquiries as lay in my power, I became 
still more persuaded that my right honorable father nourished 
some thoughts of making an honest woman of Marie de Mar- 
tigny, and a legitimate elder brother of Francis, after his death 
at least, if not during his life. I was the more convinced of 
this, when a little affair, which I chanced to have w'ith the 

daughter of my Tu , drew down my father’s WTath upon me 

in great abundance, and occasioned my being banished to 
Scotland, along w'ith my brother, under a very poor allowance, 
without introductions, except to one.steady, or call it rusty, old 
Professor, and with the charge that I should not assume the 
title of Lord Oakendale, but content myself wath my maternal 
grandfather’s name of Valentine Bulmer, that of Francis Tyrrcl 
being pre-occupied. 

“Upon this occasion, notwithstanding the fear which I en- 
tertained of my father’s passionate temper, I did venture to 
say, that since I was to resign my title, 1 thought I had a right 
to keep my family name, and that my brother migh^ take his 
mother’s. I wish you had seen the look of rage with which my 
father regarded me wiien I gave him this spirited hint, ‘ Thou 
art’ — he said, and paused, as if to find out the bitterest epithet 
to supply the blank— ‘thou art thy mother’s child, and her per- 
fect picture,’ — (this seemed the severest reproach that occurred 
to him). — ‘ Bear her name then, and bear it with patience and 
in secrecy ; or, I here give you my w'ord, you shall never bear 
another the whole days of your life.’ This sealed my mouth 
W'ith a wdtness ; and then, in allusion to my flirtation with the 

daughter of my d\i aforesaid, he enlarged on the folly and 

iniquity of private marriages, warned me that in the country I 
was going to the matrimonial noose often lies hid under flowers, 
and that folks find it twisted round their neck when they least 
expect such a cravat ; assured me, that he had very particular 
view's for settling Francis and me in life, and he would forgive 
neither of us w'ho should, by any such rash entanglement, render 
them unavailing. 

“ This last minatory admonition was the more tolerable, 
that my rival had his share of it ; and so we were bundled off 
to Scotland, coupled up like two pointers in a dog-cart, and — 
I can speak for one at least — with much the same uncordial 
feeling toward each other. I often, indeed, detected Francis 


250 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


looking at me with a singular expression, as of pity and anxiety, 
and once or twice he seemed disposed to enter on something 
respecting the situation in which we stood toward each other, 
but I felt no desire to encourage his confidence. Meantime, as 
we were called, by our father’s directions, not brothers, but 
cousins, so we came to bear toward each other the habits of 
companionship, though scarcely of friendship. What Francis 
thought, I know not ; for my part, I must confess, that I layby 
on the watch for some opportunity when I might mend my own 
situation with my father, though at the prejudice of my rival. 
And Fortune, while she seemed to prevent such an opportunity, 
involved us both in one of the strangest and most entangled 
mazes that her capricious divinityship ever wove, and out of 
which I am even now struggling, by sleight or force, to extricate 
myself. I can hardly help wondering, even yet, at the odd con- 
junction, which has produced such an intricacy of complicated 
incidents. 

‘‘ My father was a great sportsman, and Francis and I had 
both inherited his taste for field-sports, but I in a keener and 
more ecstatic degree. Edinburgh, which is a tolerable residence 
in winter and spring, becomes disagreeable in summer, and in 
autumn is the most melancholy sejour that ever poor mortals 
were coi^demned to. No public places are open, no inhabitant 
of any consideration remains in the town ; those who cannot 
get away, hide themselves in obscure corners, as if ashamed to 
be seen in the streets. The gentry go to their country-houses 
— the citizens to their sea-bathing quarters — the lawyers to 
their circuits — the writers to visit their country clients — and 
all the world to the moors to shoot grouse. We, who felt the 
indignity of remaining in town during this deserted season, 
obtained, with some difficulty, permission from the Earl to 
betake ourselves to any obscure corner, and shoot grouse, if 
we could get leave to do so ori our general character of English 
students at the University of Edinburgh, without quoting any- 
thing more. 

“ The first year of our banishment we went to the neighbor- 
hood of the Highlands ; but finding our sport interrupted by 
gamekeepers and their gillies, on the second occasion we estab- 
lished ourselves at this little village of St. Ronan’s where there 
were then no Spa, no fine people, no card-tables, no quizzes, 
excepting the old quiz of a landlady with whom we lodged. 
We found the place much to our mind ; the old landlady had 
interest with some old fellow, agent of a non-residing noble- 
man, who gave us permission to sport over his moors, of which 
I availed myself keenly, and Franffis with more moderation. 


ST, /eOATAJV^S WELL. 


251 

He was, indeed, of a grave musing sort of a habit, and often 
preferred solitary walks, in the wild and beautiful scenery with 
which the village is surrounded, to the use of the gun. He was 
attached to fishing, moreover, that dullest of human amuse- 
ments, and this also tended to keep us considerably apart 
This gave me rather pleasure than concern ; — not that I hated 
Francis at that time ; nay, not that I greatly disliked his 
society ; but merely because it was unpleasant to be always 
with one, whose fortunes I looked upon as standing in direct 
opposition to my own. I also rather despised the indifference 
about sport, which indeed seemed to grow upon him ; but my 
gentleman had better taste than I was aware of. If he sought 
no grouse on the hill, he had flushed a pheasant in the wood. 

“ Clara Mowbray, daughter of the Lord of the more pictu- 
resque than wealthy domain of St. Ronan’s, was at that time 
scarce sixteen years old, and as wild and beautiful a woodland 
nymph as the imagination can fancy — simple as a child in all 
that concerned the world and its ways, acute as a needle in 
every point of knowledge which she had found an opportunity 
of becoming acquainted with ; fearing harm from no one, and 
with a lively and natural strain of wit, which brought amuse- 
ment and gayety wherever she came. Her motions were under 
no restraint, save that of her own inclination ; for her father, 
though a cross, peevish old man, was confined to his chair with 
the gout, and her only companion, a girl somewhat of inferior 
caste, bred up in the utmost deference to Miss Mowbray’s 
fancies, served for company indeed in her strolls through the 
wild country on foot and on horseback, but never thought of 
interfering with her will and pleasure. 

“ The extreme loneliness of the country (at that time), and 
the simplicity of its inhabitants, seemed to render these excur- 
sions perfectly safe. Francis, happy dog, became the com- 
panion of the damsels on such occasions through the following 
accident. Miss Mowbray had dressed herself and her com- 
panion like country wenches, with a view to surprise the family 
of one of their better sort of farmers. They had accomplished 
their purpose greatly to their satisfaction, and were hying home 
after sunset, when they were encountered by a country fellow 
— a sort of Harry Jekyl in his way — who, being equipped with 
a glass or two of whisky, saw not the nobility of blood through 
her disguise, and accosted the daughter of a hundred sires as 
he would have done a ewe-milker. Miss Mowbray remonstrated 
— her companion screamed — up came cousin Francis with a 
fowling-piece on his shoulder, and soon put the sylvan to flight. 

“ This was the beginning of an acquaintance, which had 


252 


ST. TOJVAJV’S WELL. 


gone great lengths before I found it out. The fair Clara, it 
seems, found it safer to roam in the woods with an escort than 
alone, and my studious and sentimental relative was almost her 
constant companion. At their age it was likely that some time 
might pass ere they came to understand each other ; but fi/11 
confidence and intimacy was established between them ere I 
heard of their amour. 

“ And here, Harry, I must pause till next morning, and 
send you the conclusion under a separate cover. The rap 
which I had over the elbow the other day, is still tingling at 
the end of my fingers, and you must not be critical with my 
manuscript.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. 

LETTER CONTINUED. 

Must I then ravel out 

My weaved-up follies ? 

Shakespeare. 

“ I RESUME my pen, Harry, to mention, without attempting 
to describe my surprise, that Francis, compelled by circum- 
stances, made me the confidant of his love-intrigue. My 
grave cousin in love, and very much in the mind of approach- 
ing the perilous verge of clandestine marriage — he who used 
every now and then, not much to the improvement of our cor- 
dial regard, to lecture me upon filial duty, just upon the point 
of slipping the bridle himself! 1 could not for my life tell 
whether surprise, or a feeling of mischievous satisfaction, 
was predominant. I tried to talk to him as he used to talk to 
me ; but I had not the gift of persuSlsion, or he the power 
of understanding the words of wisdom. He insisted our situa- 
tion was different — that his unhappy birth, as he termed it, 
freed him at least from dependence on his father’s absolute 
will — that he had, by bequest from some relative of his mother, 
a moderate competence, which Miss Mowbray had consented 
to share with him ; in fine, that he desired not my counsel but 
my assistance. A moment’s consideration convinced me, that 
I should be unkind, not to him only but to myself, unless I 
gave him all the backing I could in this his most dutiful scheme. 
I recollected our right honorable father’s denunciations against 


ST. KONAN'S WELL. 


253 

Scottish marriages, and secret marriages of all sorts, — de- 
nunciations perhaps not the less vehement that he might feel 
some secret prick of conscience on the subject himself. I re- 
membered that my grave brother had always been a favorite, 
and I forgot not — how was it possible I could forget.? — those 
ominous expressions, which intimated a possibility of the hered- 
itary estate and honors being transferred to the elder, instead 
of the younger son. Now, it required no conjurer to foresoe, 
that should Francis commit this inexpiable crime of secretly 
allying himself with a Scottish beauty, our sire would lose all 
wish to accomplish such a transference in his favor; and while 
my brother’s merits were altogether obscured by such an 
unpardonable act of disobedience, my own, no longer over- 
shadowed by prejudice or partiality, would shine forth in all 
their natural brilliancy. These considerations, which flashed on 
me wuth the rapidity of lightning, induced me to consent to hold 
Frank’s back-hand, during the perilous game he proposed to play. 
I had only to take care that my own share in the matter should 
not be so prominent as to attract my father’s attention ; and 
this I was little afraid of, .for his wrath w'as usually of that 
vehement and forcible character, which, like lightning, is 
attracted to one single point, there bursting with violence, as 
undivided as it was uncontrolable. 

“ I soon found the lovers needed my assistance more than I 
could have supposed ; for they were absolute novices in any 
sort of intrigue, which to me seemed as easy and natural as 
lying. Francis had been detected by some tattling spy in his 
walks with Clara, and the news had been carried to old Mow- 
bray, who was greatly incensed at his daughter, though little 
know'ing that her crime w'as greater than admitting an unknown 
English student to form a personal acquaintance with her. 
He prohibited further intercourse — resolved, in justice-of- 
peace phrase, to rid the country of us ; and, prudently sinking 
all mention of his daughter’s delinquency, commenced an ac- 
tion against Francis, under pretext of punishing him as an 
encroacher upon his game, but in reality to scare him from 
the neighborhood. His person was particularly described to 
all the keepers and satellites about Shaws Castle, and any 
personal intercourse betwixt him and Clara became impossible, 
except under the most desperate risks. Nay, such \vas their 
alarm, that Master Francis thought it prudent, for Miss Mow- 
bray’s -sake, to withdraw as far as a town called Marchthorn, 
and there to conceal himself, maintaining his intercourse with 
Clara only by letter. 

“It was then I became the sheet-anchor of the hope of the 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


254 

lovers; it was then my early dexterity and powers of contriv- 
ance were first put to the test ; and it would be too long to tell 
you in how many shapes, and by how many contrivances, I 
acted as agent, letter-carrier, and go-between, to maintain the 
intercourse of these separated turtles. I have had a good deal 
of trouble in that way on my own account, but never half so 
much as I took on account of this brace of lovers. I scaled 
walls and swam rivers, set blood-hounds, quarter-staves, and 
blunderbusses at defiance ; and excepting the distant prospect 
of self-interest which I have hinted at, I was neither to have 
honor nor reward for my pains. I will own to you that Clara 
Mowbray was so very beautiful — so absolutely confiding in her 
lover’s friend — and thrown into such close intercourse with me, 
that there were times when I thought that, in conscience, she 
ought not to have scrupled to have contributed a mite to re- 
ward the faithful laborer. But then she looked like purity 
itself ; and I was such a novice at that time of day, that I did 
not know how it might have been possible for me to retreat, if 
I had made too bold an advance — and, in short, I thought it 
best to content myself with assisting true love to run smooth, 
in the hope that its course would assure me, in the long-run, an 
Earl’s title, and an Earl’s fortune. 

“ Nothing was, therefore, ventured on my part which could 
raise suspicion, and, as the confidential friend of the lovers, I 
prepared everything for their secret marriage. The pastor of 
the parish agreed to perform the ceremony, prevailed upon by 
an argument which I used to him, and which Clara, had she 
guessed it, would have little thanked me for. I led the honest 
man to believe, that, in declining to do this oiiice, he might 
prevent a too successful lover from doing justice to a betrayed 
maiden ; and the parson, who, I found, had a spice of romance 
in his disposition, resolved, under such pressing circumstances, 
to do them the kind office of binding them together, although 
the consequence might be a charge of irregularity against 
himself. Old Mowbray was much confined to his room, his 
daughter less watched since Frank had removed from the 
neighborhood — the brother (which, by the by, I should have 
said before) not then in the countrv — and it was settled that 
the lovers should meet at the Old Kirk of St. Ronan’s, when 
the twilight became deep, and go off in a chaise for England so 
soon as the ceremony was performed. 

“ When all this was arranged save the actual appointment 
of the day, you cannot conceive the happiness and the gratitude 
of my sage brother. He looked upon himself as approaching 
to the seventh heaven, instead of losing his chance of a good 


ST. TONAJV^S WELL. 


255 

fortune, and encumbering himself at nineteen with a wife, and 
all the probabilities of narrow circumstances, and an increasing 
family. Though so much younger myself, I could not help 
wondering at his extreme want of knowledge of the world, and 
feeling ashamed that I had ever allowed him to take the airs 
of a tutor with me ; and this conscious superiority supported 
me against the thrill of jealousy which always seized me when 
I thought of his carrying off the beautiful prize, which, without 
my address, he could never have made his own. — But at tiffs 
important crisis, I had a letter from my father, which, by some 
accident, had long lain at our lodgings in Edinburgh — had then 
visited our former quarters in the Highlands — again returned 
to Edinburgh — and at length reached me at Marchthorn in a 
most critical time. 

“ It was in reply to a letter of mine, in which, among other 
matters, such as good boys send to their papas, descriptions of 
the country, accounts of studies, exercises, and so forth, I had, 
to fill up the sheet to a dutiful length, thrown in something 
about the family at St. Ronan’s, in the neighborhood of which 
I was writing. I had no idea what an effect the name would 
produce on the mind of my right honorable father, but his letter 
sufficiently expressed it. *tde charged me to cultivate the ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Mowbray as fast and as intimately as pos- 
sible ; and, if need were, to inform him candidly of our real 
character and situation in life. Wisely considering, at the 
same time, that his filial admonition might be neglected if not 
backed by some sufficient motive, hfs lordship frankly let me 
into the secret of my grand-uncle by the mother's side, Mr. S. 
Mowbrav of Nettlewood’s • last will and testament, by which I 
saw, to my astonishment and alarm, that a large and fair estate 
was bequeathed to the eldest son and heir of the Ifarl of Elher- 
ington, on condition of his forming a matrimonial alliance with 
a lady of the house of Mowbray of St. Ronan's. — Mercy of 
Heaven ! how I stared ! Here had I been making every pre- 
paration for wedding Francis to the very girl, whose hand would 
insure to myself wealth and independence !— And even the first 
loss, though great, was not likely to be the last. My father 
spoke of the marriage like a land-surveyor, but of the estate of 
Nettlewood like an impassioned lover. He seemed to dote on 
every acre of it, and dwelt on its contiguity to his own domains 
as a circumstance which rendered the union of the estates not 
desirable merelv, but constituted an arrangement pointed out 
by the hand of nature. And although he observed, that, on 
account of the youth of the parties, a treaty of marriage could 
not be immediately undertaken, it was yet clear he would ap- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


256 

prove at heart of any bold stroke which would abolish the in- 
terval of time that might otherwise intervene, ere Oakendale 
and Nettlewood became one property. 

“ Here, then, were shipwrecked my fair hopes. It was clear 
as sunshine, that a private marriage, unpardonable in the 
abstract, would become venial, nay, highly laudable, in my 
father’s eyes, if it united his heir with Clara Mowbray ; and if 
he really had, as my fears suggested, the means of establishing 
legiiimacy on my brother’s part, nothing was so likely to tempt 
him to use them, as the certainty that, by his doing so, Nettle- 
wood and Oakendale would be united into one. The very 
catastrophe which I had prepared, as sure to exclude my rival 
from his father’s favor, was thus likely, unless it could be pre- 
vented, to become a strong motive and argument for the Earl 
placing his rights above mine. 

“I shut myself up in -my bedroom, locked the door, read 
and again read my father’s letter, and, instead of giving way to 
idle passion (beware of that, Harry, even in the most desperate 
circumstances), 1 considered, with keen investigation, whether 
some remedy could not yet be found. — To break off the match 
for the time would have been easy — a little private information 
to Mr. Mowbray would have done that with a vengeance — but 
then the treaty might be renewed under my father’s auspices ; 
— at all events, the share which I had taken in the intrigue 
between Clara and my brother, rendered it almost impossible 
for me to become a suitor in my own person.- -Amid these per- 
plexities, it suddenly occurred to my adventurous heart and con- 
triving brain — what if I should personate the bridegroom } — • 
This strange thought, you will recollect, occurred to a very 
youthful brain — it was banished — it returned — returned again 
and again — was viewed under every different shape — became 
familiar — was adopted — It was easy to fix the appointment 
with Clara and the clergyman, for I managed the whole corre^ 
spondence — the resemblance between Francis and me in stature 
and in proportion — the disguise which we were to assume — the , 
darkness of the church — the hurry of the moment — might, I 
trusted, prevent Clara from recognizing me. To the minister j 
I had only to say, that, though I had hitherto talked of a ' 
friend, I myself was the happy man. My first name was 1 
hrancis as well as his ; and I had found Clara so gentle, so con- j 
hding, so flatteringly cordial in her intercourse with me, that, I 
once within my power, and prevented from receding by shame 1 
and a thousand contradictory feelings, I had, wkh the vanity j 
of an amoureux de seize a?is, the confidence to believe I could J 
reconcile the fair lady to the exchange. -- A 


ST. TOATAAT^S WELL. 


257 


“ There certainly never came such a thought into a madcap’s 
brain ; and, what is more extraordinary — but that you already 
know — it was so far successful, that the marriage ceremony was 
performed between us in the presence of a servant of mine, her 
accommodating companion, and the priest. — We got into the 
carriage, and were a mile from the church, when my unlucky 
or lucky brother stopped the chaise by force — through what 
means he had obtained knowledge of my little trick, I never 
have been able to learn. Solmeshas been faithful to me in too 
many instances, that I should suspect him in this important 
crisis. I jumped out of the carriage, pitched fraternity to the 
devil, and, betwixt desperation and something very like shame, 
began to cut away with a couteau de chasse, which I had pro- 
vided in case of necessity, — All was in vain — I was hustled 
down under the wheel of the carriage, and, the horses taking 
fright, it went over my body. 

“ Here ends my narrative ; for I neither heard nor saw more 
until I found myself stretched on a sick-bed many miles from 
the scene of action, and Solmes engaged in attending on me. 
In answer to my passionate inquiries, he briefly informed me 
that Master Francis had sent back the young lady to her own 
dwelling, and that she appeared to be extremely ill in conse- 
quence of the alarm she had sustained. My own health, he 
assured me, was considered as very precarious, and added, that 
Tyrrel, who was in the same house, was in the utmost pertur- 
bation on my account. The very mention of his name brought 
on a crisis in which I brought up much blood ; and it is singu- 
lar that the physician who attended me — a grave gentleman, 
with a wig — considered that this was of service to me. I know 
it frightened me heartily, and prepared me for a visit from 
Master Frank, which I endured with a tameness he would not 
have experienced, had the usual current of blood flowed in my 
veins. But sickness and the lancet make one very tolerant of 
sermonizing. — At last, in consideration of being relieved from 
his accursed presence, and the sound of his infernally calm 
voice, I slowly and reluctantly acquiesced in an arrangement, 
bv which he proposed that we should forever bid adieu to each 
other, and to Clara Mowbray. I would have hesitated at this 
last stipulation. ‘ She was^’ I said, ‘ my wife, and I was 
entitled to claim her as such.’ 

“ This drew down a shower of most moral reproaches, 
and an assurance that Clara disowned and detested my alliance, 
and that where there had been an essential error in the person, 
the mere ceremony could never be accounted binding by the 
law of any Christian country. I wonder this had not occurred 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


258 

to me ; but my ideas of marriage were much founded on plays 
and novels, where such devices as I had practiced are often 
resorted to for winding up the plot, without any hint of their 
illegality ; besides, 1 had confided, as I mentioned before, a 
little too rashly perhaps, in my own powders of persuading so 
young a bride as Clara to be contented with one handsome 
fellow instead of another. 

“ Solmes took up the argument, when Francis released me 
by leaving the room. He spoke of my father’s resentment, 
should this enterprise reach his ears — of the revenge of Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s whose nature was both haughty and 
rugged — of risk from the laws of the country, and God knows 
what bugbears besides, wdiich at a more advanced age I w^ould 
have laughed at. In a w'ord, I sealed the capitulation, vowed 
perpetual absence, and banished myself, as they say in this 
country, forth of Scotland. 

And here, Harry, observe and respect my genius. Every 
circumstance was against me in this negotiation. I had been 
the aggressor in the war ; I was wounded, and, it might be 
said, a prisoner in my antagonist’s hands ; yet I could so far 
avail myself of Monsieur Martigny’s greater eagerness for 
peace, that I clogged the treaty with a condition highly ad- 
vantageous to myself, and equally unfavorable to him. — Said 
Mr. Francis Martigny was to take upon himself the burden of 
my right honorable father’s displeasure ; and our separation, 
which was certain to give immense offence, was to be repre- 
sented as his work, not as mine. I insisted, tender-hearted, 
dutiful soul, as I was, that I w^ould consent to no measure 
w'hich was to bring down papa’s displeasure, this was a sine qua 
no7i in our negotiation. 

‘ Voila ce que c’est d’avoir des talcns.’ 

“ Monsieur Francis would, I suppose, have taken the world 
on his shoulders, to have placed an eternal separation betwixt 
hib turtle dove and the falcon who had made so bold a pounce 
at her. — What he wrote to my father I know not ; as for 
myself, in all duty, I represented the bad state of my health 
from an accident, and that my brother and companion having 
been suddently called from me by some cause which he had not 
explained, I had thought it necessary to get to London for the 
best advice, and only waited his lordship’s permission to return 
to the paternal mansion. This I soon received, and found, as 
I expected, that he was in towering wrath against my brother 
for his disobedience ; and, after some time, I even had reason 


ST. TOA'AN'S WELL. 


259 

to think (as, how could it be otherwise, Harry ?), that, on 
becoming better acquainted with the merits and amiable man- 
ners of his apparent heir, he lost any desire which he might 
formerly have entertained, of accomplishing any change in my 
circumstances in relation to the world. Perhaps the old peer 
turned a little ashamed of his own conduct, and dared not aver 
to the congregation of the righteous (for he became saintly in 
his latter days,) the very pretty frolics which he seems to have 
been guilty of in his youth. Perhaps, also, the death of my 
right honorable mother operated in my favor, since, while she 
lived, my chance was the worse — -there is no sa)ung what a man 
will do to spite his wife. — Enough, he died — ^slegt with his 
right honorable fathers, and I became, without opposition, 
Right Honorable in his stead. 

“ How I have borne my new honors, thou, Harry, and our 
merry set know full well. Newmarket and TattersalFs may tell 
the rest. — I think I have been as lucky as most men where luck 
is most prized, and so I shall say no more on that subject. 

“ And now, Harry, I will suppose thee in a moralizing 
mood ; that is, I will fancy the dice have run wrong — or your 
double-barrel has hung fire — or a certain lady has looked cross 
• — or any such weighty cause of gravity has occurred, and you 
give me the benefit of your seriousness. — ‘ My dear Ethering- 
ton,’ say you pithily, ‘you are a precious fool ! — Here you are 
stirring up a business rather scandalous in itself, and fraught 
with mischief to all concerned — a business which might sleep 
forever, if you let it alone, but which is sure, like a sea-coal 
fire, to burst into a flame if you go on poking it. I would like 
to ask your lordship only two questions,’ — say you with your 
usual graceful attitude of adjusting your perpendicular shirt, 
collar, and passing your hand over the knot of your cravat, 
which deserves a peculiar place in the Tietaiiia — ‘ only two 
questions — that is, whether you do not repent the past, and 
whether you do not fear the future } ’ Very comprehensive 
queries these of yours, Harry ; for they respect both the time 
past and the time to come — one’s whole life, in short. How- 
ever, I shall endeavor to answer them as well as I may. 

“ Repent the past, said you ? — Yes, Harry, I think I do 
repent the past — that is, not quite in the parson’s style of re- 
pentance, which resembles yours when you have a headache, 
but as I would repent a hand at cards which I had played on 
false principles. I should have begun with the young lady- 
availed myself in a very different manner of Monsieur Mar- 
tigny’s absence, and my own intimacy with her, and thus 
superseded him, if possible, in the damsel’s affections. The 


ST. KONAN^S WELL. 


260 

scheme I adopted, though there was, I think, both boldness and 
dexterity in it, was that of a novice of premature genius, who 
could not calculate chances. So much for repentance. — Do I 
not fear the future ? — Harry, I will not cut your throat for 
supposing you to have put the question, but calmly assure you, 
that I never feared anything in my life. I was born without the 
sensation, I believe ; at least it is perfectly unknown to me. 
When I felt that cursed wheel pass across my breast, when I 
felt the pistol-ball benumb my arm, I felt no more agitation 
than at the bounce of a champagne-cork. But I would not 
have you think that I am fool enough to risk plague, trouble, 
and danger (all of which, besides considerable expense, I am 
now prepared to encounter), without some adequate motive, — 
and here it is. 

“ From various quarters, hints, rumors, and surmises have 
reached me, that an attack will be made on my rank and status 
in society, which can only be in behalf of this fellow Martigny 
(for I will not call him by his' stolen name of Tyrrel). Now, 
this I hold to be a breach of the paction bewixt us, by which 
— that is, by that which I am determined to esteem its true 
meaning and purport — he was to leave my right honorable 
father and me to settle our own matters without his inter- 
ference, which amounted to a virtual resignation of his rights, 
if the scoundrel ever had any. Can he expect I am to resign 
my wife, and what is a better thing, old Scrogie Mowbray’s 
estate of Nettlewood, to gratify the humor of a fellow who 

sets up claims to my title and whole property } No, by ! 

If he assails me in a point so important, I will retaliate upon 
him in one where he will feel as keenly ; and that he may de- 
pend upon. — And now, methinks, you come upon me with a 
second edition of your grave remonstrances, about family feuds, 
unnatural rencontres, offence to all the feelings of all the world, 
et caetera, et caetera, which you might usher in most delectably 
with the old stave about brethren dwelling together in unity. 1 
will not stop to inquire whether all these delicate apprehensions 
are on account of the Earl of Etherington, his safety, and his 
reputation ; or whether my friend Harry Jekyl be not considering 
how far his own interference with such a naughty business will 
be well taken at head-quarters ; and so, without pausing on 
that question, I shall barely and briefly sav, that you cannot be 
more sensible than I am of the madness of bringing matters to 
such an extremity — I have no such intention, I assure you, 
and it is with no such purpose that I invite you here. — Were I 
to challenge Martigny, he would refuse me the meeting ; and 


ST. TOiVAN'S WELL. 


261 


all less ceremonious ways of arranging such an affair are quite 
old-fashioned. 

“ It is true at our first meeting I was betrayed into the 
scrape I told you of — just as you may have shot (or shot at., for 
I think you are no downright hitter) a hen-pheasant, when 
flushed within distance, by a sort of instinctive movement, 
without reflecting on the enornvity you were about to commit 
The truth is, there is an ignis fatuus influence, which seems to 
govern our house — it poured its wildfire through my father’s 
veins — it has descended to me in full vigor, and every now and 
then its impulse is irresistible. There was my enemy, and here 
were my pistols, was all I had time to think about the matter. 
But I will be on my guard in future, the more surely, as I 
cannot receive any provocation from him ; on the contrary, if 
I must confess the truth, though I was willing to gloss it a 
little in my first account of- the matter (like the Gazette, when 
recording a defeat), I am certain he would never voluntarily 
hav^e fired at me, and that his pistol went off as he fell. You 
know me well enough to be assured, that I will never be again 
in the scrape of attacking an unresisting antagonist, were he 
ten times my brother. 

“ Then, as to this long tirade about hating my brother — 
Harry, I do not hate him more than the first-born of Egypt 
are in general hated by those whom they exclude from entailed 
estates, and so forth — not one landed man in twenty of us that 
is not hated by his younger brothers, to the extent of wishing 
him quiet in his grave, as an abominable stumbling-block in 
their path of life ; and so far only do I hate Monsieur Martigny. 
But for the rest, I rather like him as otherwise ; and would he 
but die would give my frank consent to his being canonised ; 
and while he lives, I am not desirous that he should be exposed 
to any temptation from rank and riches, those main obstacles to 
the self-denying course of life, by which the odor of sanctity is 
attained. 

“ Here again you break in with your impertinent queries — 
If I have no purpose of quarreling personally with Martigny, 
why do I come into collision with him at all ? — why not abide 
by the treaty of Marchthorn, and remain in England, without 
again approaching St. Ronaii’s, or claiming my maiden bride } 

“ Have I not told you, I want him to cease all threatened 
attempts upon my fortune and dignity } Have I not told you 
that I want to claim my wife, Clara Mowbray, and my estate 
of Nettlewood, fairly won by marrying her ! — And, to let you 
into the whole secret, though Clara is a very pretty woman, yet 
she goes for so little in the transaction with me, her unimpas- 


262 


ST. ROiVAN^S WELL. 


sioned bridegroom, that I hope to make some relaxation of my 
rights over her the means of obtaining the concessions which I 
think most important. 

“ I will not deny, that an aversion to awakening bustle, and 
encountering reproach, has made me so slow in looking after 
my interest, that the period will shortly expire, within which I 
ought, by old Scrog Mowbray’s, will, to qualify myself for be- 
coming his heir, by being the accepted husband of Miss Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s. Time was — time is — and if I catch it not 
by the forelock as it passes, time will be no more — Nettlewood 
will be forfeited — and if I have in addition a lawsuit for my 
title, and for Oakendale, I run a risk of being- altogether 
capoted. I must, therefore, act at all risks, and act with vigor 
— and this is the general plan of my campaign, subject always 
to be altered according to circumstances. I have obtained — I 
may say purchased: — Mowbray’s consent to address his sister. 
I have this advantage, that if she agrees to take me, she will 
•forever put a stop to all disagreeable reports and recollections, 
founded on her former conduct. In that case I secure the 
Nettlewood property, and am ready to wage war for my paternal 
state. Indeed, I firmly believe, that should this happy con- 
summation take place. Monsieur Martigny will be too much 
heart-broken to make further fight, but will e’en throw helve 
after hatchet, and run to hide himself, after the fashion of a 
true lover, in some desert beyond seas. 

“ But supposing the lady has the bad taste to be obstinate, 
and will none of me, I still think that her happiness, or her 
peace of mind, will be as dear to Martigny, as Gibraltar is to 
the Spaniards, and that he will sacrifice a great deal to induce 
me to give up my pretensions. Now, I shall want some one 
to act as my agent in communicating with this fellow ; for I 
will not deny that my old appetite for cutting his throat may 
awaken suddenly, were I to hold personal intercourse with him. 
Come thou, therefore, without delay, and hold my backhand — • 
Come, for you know me, and that I never left a kindness un- 
rewarded. To be specific, you shall have means to pay off a 
certain inconvenient mortgage, without troubling the tribe of 
Issachar, if you will but be true to me in this matter — Come, 
therefore, .w’ithout further apologies or further delay. There 
shall, I give you my word, neither be risk nor offence in the 
part of the drama which I intend to commit to your charge. 

“ Talking of the drama, we had a miserable attempt at a 
sort of bastard theatricals, at Mowbray’s rat-gnawed mansion. 
There were two things worth noticing — One, that I lost all the 
courage on which I pique myself, and fairly fled from the pit, 


ST. KVNAN\S WELL, 


263 

rather than present myself before Miss Clara Mowbray, when 
it came to the push. And upon this I pray you to remark, 
that I am a person of singular delicacy and modesty, instead of 
being the Drawcansir and Daredevil that you would make of 
me. The other memorable is of a more delicate nature, respect- 
ing the conduct of a certain fair lady, who seemed determined 
to fling herself at my head. There is a wonderful degree of 
freemasonry among us folk of spirit ; and it is astonishing 
how soon we can place ourselves on a footing with neglected 
wives and discontented daughters. If you come not soon, one 
of the rewards held out to you in my former letter will certainly 
not be forthcoming. No schoolboy keeps gingerbread for his 
comrade without feeling a desire to nibble at it ; so, if you 
appear not to look after your own interest,, say you had fair 
warning. For my own part, I am rather embarrassed than 
gratified by the prospect of such an affair, when I have on the 
tapis another of a different nature. This enigma I will explain 
at meeting. 

“ Thus finishes my long communication. If my motives of 
action do not appear explicit, think in what a maze fortune has 
involved me, and how much must necessarily depend on the 
chapter of accidents. 

“ Yesterday I may be said to have opened my siege, for I 
presented myself before Clara. I had no very flattering recep- 
tion — that was of little consequence, for I did not expect one. 
By alarming her fears, I made an impression thus far, that she 
acquiesces in my appearing before her as her brother’s guest, 
and this is no small point gained. She will become accustomed 
to look on me, and will remember with less bitterness the trick 
which I played her formerly : w'hile I, on the other hand, by 
a similar force of habit, will get over certain awkward feelings 
with which I have been compunctiously visited whenever I 
look upon her. — Adieu ! Health and brotherhood. 

Thine, 


“ Etherington.” 


264 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

THE REPLY. 

Thou bear’st a precious burden, gentle post, 

Nitre and sulphur — See that it explode not. 

Old Play. 

“ I HAVE received your two long letters, iny dear Ethering- 
ton, with equal surprise and interest; for what I knew of your 
Scottish adventures before, was by no means sufficient to 
prepare me for a statement so perversely complicated. The 
Ignis Fatuus which, you say, governed your father, seems to 
have ruled the fortunes of your whole house, there is so much 
eccentricity in all that you have told me. But ti^imp07ie^ Ether- 
ington, you were my friend — you held me up when I was com- 
pletely broken down ; and, whatever you may think, my services 
are at your command, much more from reflections on the past, 
than hopes for the future. I am no speech-maker, but this 
you may rely on while I continue to be Harry Jekyl. You 
have deserved some love at my hands, Etherington, and you 
have it. 

“ Perhaps I love you the better since your perplexities have 
become known to me ; for, my dear Etherington, you were 
before too much an object of envy to be entirely an object of 
affection. What a happy fellow ! was the song of all who 
named your rank, and a fortune to maintain it — luck sufficient 
to repair all the waste that you could make in your income, 
and skill to back that luck, or supply it, should it for a moment 
fail you. — The cards turning up as if to your wish — the dice 
rolling, it almost seemed, at your wink — it was rather vour 
look than the touch of your cue that sent the ball into the 
pocket. You seemed to have fortune in chains, and a man of 
less honor would have been almost suspected of helping his 
luck by a little art. — You won every bet; and the instant that 
you were interested, one might have named the winning horse 
— it was always that which you were to gain most by. — You 
never held out your piece but the game went down — and then 
the women! — with face, manners, person, and, above all your 
tongue — what wild work have you made among them ! — Gcod 
heaven ! and have you had the old sword hanging over your 
head by a horsehair all this while 1 — Has your rank been 
doubtful ? — Your fortune unsettled ? — And your luck, so con 


ST. jRONAN'S WELL. 


265 

stant in everything else, has that, as well as your predominant 
influence with the women, failed you, when you wished to form 
a connection for life, and when the care of your fortune required 
you to do so ? — Etherington, I am astonished ! — The Mowbray 
scrape I always thought an inconvenient one, as well as the 
quarrel with this same Tyrrel, or Martigny ; but I was far from 
guessing the complicated nature of your preplexities. 

“ But I must not run on in a manner which, though it 
relieves my own marveling mind, cannot be very pleasant to 
you. Enough, I jook on my obligations to you as more light 
to be borne, now I have some chance of repaying them to a 
certain extent ; but, even were the full debt paid, I would 
remain as much attached to you as ever. It is your friend who 
speaks, Etherington ; and, if he offers his advice in somewhat 
plain language, do not, I entreat you, suppose that your confi- 
dence has encouraged an offensive familiarity, but consider me 
as one who, in a weighty matter, writes plainly, to avoid the 
least chance of misconstruction. 

“ Etherington, your conduct hitherto has resembled any- 
thing rather than the coolness and judgment which are so 
peculiarly your own when you choose to display them. I pass 
over the masquerade of your marriage — it was a boy’s trick, 
which could hardly have availed you much, even if successful ; 
for what sort of a wife would you have acquired, had this same 
Clara Mowbray proved willing to have accepted the change 
which you had put upon her, and transferred herself, without 
repugnance, from one bridegroom to another ? — Poor as I am, 
I know that neither Nettlewood nor Okendale should have 

bribed me to marry such a . I cannot decorously fill up 

the blank. 

“ Neither, my dear Etherington, can I forgive you the trick 
you put on the clergyman, in whose eyes you destroyed the 
poor girl’s character to induce him to consent to perform the 
ceremony, and have thereby perhaps fixed an indelible stain on 
her for life — this was not a fair ruse de guej'te . — As it is, you 
have taken little by your stratagem — unless, indeed, it should 
be difficult for the young lady to prove the imposition put upon 
her — for that being admitted, the marriage certainly goes for 
nothing. At least, the only use you can make of it would be 
to drive her into a more formal union, for fear of having this 
wffiole unpleasant discussion brought into a court of law ; and 
in this, with all the advantages you possess, joined to your own 
arts of persuasion, and her brother’s influence, I should think 
you very likely to succeed. All women are necessarily the 
slaves of their reputation. I have known some who have given 


ST. TOJVAJV’S WELL, 


266 

up their virtue to preserve their character, which is, after all, 
only the shadow of it. I therefore would not conceive it diffi- 
cult for Clara Mowbray to persuade herself to become a countess 
rather than be the topic of conversation for all Britain, while a 
lawsuit betwixt you is in dependence ; and that maybe for the 
greater part of both your lives. 

“ But, in Miss Mowbray’s state of mind, it may require time 
to bring her to such a conclusion ; and I fear you will be 
thwarted in your operations by your rival — I will not offend you 
by calling him your brother. Now, it is here that I think with 
pleasure I may be of some use to you, — ufider this special 
condition, that there shall be no thoughts of further violence 
taking place between you. However you may have smoothed 
over your rencontre to yourself, there is no doubt that the public 
would have regarded any accident which might have befallen on 
that occasion, as a crime of the deepest dye, and that the law 
would have followed it with the most severe punishment. And 
for all that I have said of my serviceable disposition, I would 
fain stop short on this side of the gallows — my neck is too long 
already. Without a jest, Etherington, you must be ruled by 
counsel in this matter. I detect, your hatred to this man in 
every line of your letter, even when you write with the greatest 
coolness ; even where there is an affectation of ga3^ety, I read 
your sentiments on this subject; and they are such as — I will 
uot preach to you — I will not say a good man: — but such as 
every wise man — every man who wishes, to live on fair terms 
with the world, and to escape general malediction, and perhaps 
a violent death, where all men will clap their hands and rejoice 
at the punishment of the fratricide — would, with all possible 
speed eradicate from his breast. My services, therefore, if they 
are worth your acceptance, are offered, on the condition that 
this unholy hatred be subdued with the utmost force of your 
powerful mind, and that you avoid everything which can 
possibly lead to such a catastrophe as you have twice narrowly 
escaped. I do not ask you to like this man, for I know well 
the deep root which your prejudices hold in your mind; I 
merely ask you to avoid him, and to think of him as one who, 
if you do meet him, can never be the object of personal re- 
sentment. 

“ On these conditions I will instantly join you at your Spa, 
and wait but your answer to throw myself into the post-chaise. 
I will seek out this Martigny for you, and I have the vanity to 
think I shall be able to persuade him to take the course which 
his own true interest, as well as yours, so plainly points out — 
and that is to depart and make us free of him. You must not 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


267 

grudge a round sum of money, should that prove necessary — 
vve must make wings for him to fly with, and I must be em- 
powered by you to that purpose. I cannot think you have any 
thing serious to fear from a lawsuit. Your father threw out 
this sinister hint at a moment when he was enraged at his 
wife, and irritated by his son ; and I have little doubt that 
his expressions were merely flashes of anger at the moment, 
though I see they have made a deep impression on you. At 
all events, he spoke of a preference to his illegitimate son, as 
something which it was in his own power to give or to with- 
hold ; and he has died without bestowing it. The family seem 
addicted to irregular matrimony, and some left-handed marriage 
there may have been used to propitiate the modesty, and save 
the conscience, of the P'rench lady ; but that anything of the 
nature of a serious and legal ceremony took place, nothing but 
the strongest proof can make me believe. 

“ I repeat, then, that I have little doubt that the claims of 
Martigny, whatever they are, may be easily compounded, and 
England made clear of him. This will be more easily done, if 
he really entertains such a romantic passion, as you describe, 
for Miss Clara Mowbray. It would be easy to show him that, 
whether she is disposed to accept your lordship’s hand or not, 
her quiet and peace of mind must depend on his leaving the 
country. Rely on it I shall find out the way to smooth him 
down, and whether distance or the grave divide Martigny and 
you, is very little to the purpose, unless in so far as the one point 
can be attained with honor and safety, and the other, if at- 
tempted, would only make all concerned the subject of general 
execration and deserved punishment. — Speak the word, and I 
attend you, as your truly grateful and devoted 

“Henry JEKYL.” 

To this admonitory epistle, the writer received, in the course 
of post, the following answer: — 

“ My truly grateful and devoted Henry Jekyl has adopted a 
tone which seems to be exalted without any occasion. VVhy, 
thou suspicious monitor, h?rv’e I not repeated a hundred times 
that I repent sincerely of the foolish rencontre, and am deter- 
mined to curb my temper and be on my guard in future And 
what need you come upon me, with your long lesson about exe- 
cration, and punishment, and fratricide, and so forth ? You 
deal with an argument as a boy does with the first hare he 
shoots, which he never thinks dead till he has fired the second 
barrel into her. What a fellow you would have been for a 


268 ‘ 5 - 7 : RONAN'S WEL/., 

lawyer ! how long you would have held forth upon the plainest 
cause, until the poor bothered judge was almost willing to de- 
cide against justice, that he might be revenged on you. If I 
must repeat what I have said twenty times, I tell you I have 
no thoughts of proceeding with this fellow as I would with 
another. If my father’s blood be in his veins, it shall save the 
skin his mother gave him. And so come without more parade, 
either of stipulation or argument. Thou art, indeed, a curious 
animal ! One would think, to read your communication, that 
you had yourself discovered the propriety of acting as a negoti- 
ator, and the reasons which might, in the course of such a 
treaty, be urged with advantage to induce this fellow to leave 
the country — Why, this is the very course chalked out in my 
last letter! You are bolder than the boldest gipsy, for you 
not only steal my ideas, and disfigure them, that they may pass 
for yours, but you have the assurance to come a-begging with 
them to the door of the original parent ! No man like you 
for stealing other men’s inventions, and cooking them up in 
your own way* However, Harry, bating a little self-conceit and 
assumption, thou art as honest a fellow as ever man put faith 
in — clever, too, in your own style, though not quite the genius 
you would fain pass for. — Come on thine own terms, and 
come as speedily as thou canst. I do not reckon the promise 
I made the less binding, that you very generously make no 
allusion to it. 

“ Thine, 

“ Etherington. 

“ P.S. — One single caution I must add — do not mention my 
name to any one at Harrowgate, or your prospect of meeting me, 
or the route which you are about to take. On the purpose oi 
your journey, it is unnecessary to recommend silence. I know- 
not whether such doubts are natural to all who have secret 
measures to pursue, or whether nature has given me an unusuai 
share of anxious suspicion ; but I cannot divest myself of the 
idea, that I am closely watched by some one whom I cannot 
discover. — Although I concealed my purpose of coming hither 
from all mankind but you, whom I do not for an instant suspect 
of babbling, yet it was known to this Martigny, and he is down 
here before me. Again, I said not a word — gave not a hint to 
any one of my views toward Clara, yet the tattling people here 
had spread a report of a marriage depending between us, even 
before I could make the motion to her brother. To be sure, in 
such society there is nothing talked of but marrying and 
giving in marriage ; and this, which alarms me, as connected 


ST. ROA^AN^S WELL. 


269 

with my own private purposes, may be a bare rumor, arising 
out of the gossip of the place — Yet I feel like the poor woman 
in the old story, who felt herself watched by an eye that glared 
upon her from behind the tapestry. 

“ I should have told you in my last, that I had been recog- 
nized at a public entertainment, by the old clergyman who 
pronounced the matrimonial blessing on Clara and me nearly 
eight years ago. He insisted upon addressing me by the name 
of Valentine Bulmer, under which I was then best known. It 
did not suit me at present to put him into my confidence, so I 
cut him, Harry, as I would an old pencil. The task was the 
less difficult, that I had to do with one of the most absent men 
that ever dreamed with his eyes open. I verily believe he 
might be persuaded that the whole transaction was a vision, 
and that he had never in reality seen me before. Your pious 
rebuke, therefore, about what I told him formerly concerning 
the lovers is quite thrown away. After all, if what I said was 
not accurately true, as I certainly believe it was an exaggera- 
tion, it was all Saint Francis of Martigny’s fault, I suppose. I 
am sure he had love and opportunity on his side. 

“ Here you have a postscript, Harry, longer than the letter, 
but it must conclude with the same burden — Come, and come 
quickly.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. 


THE FRIGHT. 

As shakes the bough of trembling leaf. 

When sudden whirlwinds rise ; 

As stands aghast the warrior chief, 

When his base army flies. 

* * * * 

It had been settled by all who took the matter into con- 
sideration, that the fidgety, fiery old Nabob would soon quarrel 
with his landlady, Mrs. Dods, and become impatient of his 
residence at St. Ronan’s. A man so kind to himself, and so 
inquisitive about the aflairs of others, could have, it was sup- 
posed, a limited sphere for gratification either of his tastes or 
of his curiosity, in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s; and many a 
time the precise day and hour of his departure were fixed by 
the idlers at the Spa. But still old Touchwood appeared 
amongst them, when the weather permitted, with his nut-brown 


270 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


visage, his throat carefully wrapped up in an immense Indian 
kerchief, and his gold-headed cane, which he never failed to 
carry over his shoulder ; his short, but stout limbs, and his 
active step, showed plainly that he bore it rather as a badge of 
dignity than a means of support. There he stood, answering 
shortly and gruffly to all questions proposed to him, and mak- 
ing his remarks aloud upon the company, with great indiffer- 
ence as to the offence which might be taken ; and as soon as 
the ancient priestess had handed him his glass of the salutif- 
erous water, turned on his heel with a brief good-morning, and 
either marched back to hide himself in the Manse, with his 
crony, Mr, Cargill, or to engage in some hobbyhorsical pursuit 
connected with his neighbors in the Aultoun. 

The truth was, that the honest gentleman having, so far as 
Mrs. Dods would permit, put matters to rights within her resi- 
dence, wisely abstained from pushing his innovations any fur- 
ther, aware that it is not every stone which is capable of re- 
ceiving the last degree of polish. He next set himself about 
putting Mr. Cargill’s house into order ; and, without leave 
asked or given by that reverend gentleman, he actually accom- 
plished as wonderful a reformation in the Manse, as could 
have been effected by a benevolent Brownie. The floors were 
sometimes swept — the carpets were sometimes shaken — the 
plates and dishes were cleaner — there was tea and sugar in 
the tea-chest, and a joint of meat at proper times was to be 
found in the larder. The elder maid-servant wore a good stuff 
gown — the younger snooded up her hair, and now went about 
the house a damsel so trig and neat, that some -said she was 
too handsome for the service of a bachelor divine ; and others, 
that they saw no business so old a fool as the Nabob had to be 
meddling with the lassie’s busking. But for such evil bruits 
Mr. Touchwoof) cared not, even if he happened to hear of 
them, which w^as very doubtful. Add to all these changes, 
that the garden was weeded, and the glebe was regularly 
labored. 

The talisman by which all this desirable alteration was 
wrought, consisted partly in small presents, partly in constant 
attention. The liberality of the singular old gentleman gave 
him a perfect right to scold when he saw things wrong ; the 
domestics, who had fallen into total sloth and indifference 
began to exhert themselves under Mr. Touchwood’s new sytem, 
of rewards and surveillance ; and the minister, half unconscious 
of the cause, reaped the advantage of the exertions of his busy 
friend. Sometimes he lifted his head, when he heard work- 
men thumping and bouncing in the neighborhood of his study, 


ST. KONAN'S WELL. 


271 


and demanded the meaning of the clatter which annoyed him ; 
but on receiving for answer that it was by order of Mr. Touch- 
wood, he resumed his labors, under the persuasion that all was 
well. 

But even the Augean task of putting the Manse in order 
did not satisfy the gigantic activity of Mr. Touchwood. He 
aspired to universal dominion in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s ; 
and, like most men of an ardent temper, he contrived, in a 
great measure, to possess himself of the authority he longed 
after. Then was there war waged by him with all the petty 
but perpetual nuisances, which infest a Scottish town of the 
old stamp — then was the hereditary dunghill, which had reeked 
before the window of the cottage for four-score years, transported 
behind the house — then was the broken wheelbarrow, or imser- 
viceable cart, removed out of the footpath — the old hat, or blue 
petticoat, taken from the window into which it had been 
stuffed, “ to expel the winter’s flaw,’ was consigned to the 
gutter, and its place supplied by good perspicuous glass. The 
means by which such reformation was effected, were the same 
as resorted to in the Manse— money and admonition. The 
latter given alone would have met little attention — perhaps 
would have provoked opposition — but, softened and sweetened 
by a little present to assist the reform recommended, it sunk 
into the hearts of the hearers, and in general overcame their 
objections. Besides, an opinion of the Nabob’s wealth was 
high among the villagers ; and an idea prevailed amongst 
them, that, notwithstanding his keeping no servants or equip- 
age, he was able to purchase, if he pleased, half the land in 
the country. It was not grand carriages and fine liveries that 
made heavy purses, they rather helped to lighten them ; and 
they said, who pretended to know what they were talking 
about, that old Turnpenny, and Mr. Bindloose to boot, would 
tell down more money on Mr. Touchwood’s mere word, than 
upon the joint bond of half the fine folks at the Well. Such 
an opinion smoothed everything before the path of one, who 
showed himself neither averse to give nor to lend ; and it by 
no means diminished the reputation of his wealth, that in 
transactions of business he was not carelessly negligent of his 
interest, but plainly showed he understood the value of what 
he was parting with. Few, therefore, cared to withstand the 
humors of a whimsical old gentleman, who had both the will 
and the means of obliging those disposed to comply with his 
fancies ; and thus the singular stranger contrived, in the course 
of a brief space of days or weeks, to place the villagers more 
absolutely at his devotion, than they had been to the pleasure 


Sr. RONAN^S WELL. 


272 

of any individual since their ancient lords had left the Aultoun. 
The power of the baron-bailie himself, though the office was 
vested in the person of old Meiklewham, was a subordinate 
jurisdiction, compared to the voluntary allegiance which the 
inhabitants paid to Mr. Touchwood. 

There were, however, recusants, who declined the authority 
thus set up amongst them, and, with the characteristic obsti- 
nacy of their countrymen, refused to hearken to the words of 
the stranger, whether they were for good or for evil. These 
men’s dunghills were not removed, nor the stumbling-blocks 
taken from the footpath, where it passed the front of their 
houses. And it befell, that while Mr. Touchwood was most 
eager in abating the nuisances of the village, he had very 
nearly experienced a frequent fate of great reformers — that of 
losing his life by means of one of those enormities which as yet 
had subsisted in spite of all his efforts. 

The Nabob, finding his time after dinner hang somewhat 
heavy on his hand, and the moon being tolerably bright, had, 
one harvest evening, sought his usual remedy for dispelling 
ennui by a walk to the Manse, where he was sure, that, if he 
could not succeed in engaging the minister himself in some dis- 
putation, he would at least find something in the establishment 
to animadvert upon and restore to order. 

Accordingly, he had taken the opportunity to lecture the 
younger of the minister’s lasses upon the duty of wearing shoes 
and stockings ; and, as his advice came fortified by a present 
of six pair of white cotton hose, and two pair of stout leathern 
shoes, it was received, not with respect only, but with grati- 
tude, and the chuck under the chin that rounded up the oration, 
while she opened the outer door for his honor, was acknowl- 
ledged with a blush and a giggle. Nay, so far did Grizzy 
carry her sense of Mr. Touchwood’s kindness, that, observing 
the moon was behind a cloud, she very carefully offered to es- 
cort him to the Cleikum Inn with a lantern, in case he should 
come to some harm by the gate. This the traveler’s independent 
spirit scorned to listen to 5 and, having assured her that he had 
walked the streets of Paris and of Madrid whole nights without 
such an accommodation, he stoutly strode off on his return to his 
lodgings. 

An accident, however, befell him, which, unless the police 
of Madrid and Paris be belied, might have happened in either 
of those two splendid capitals, as well as in the miserable Aultoun 
of St. Ronan’s. Before the door of Saunders Jaup, a feuar of 
some importance, “ who held his land free, andcaredna a bodle 
for ony ane,” yawned that odoriferous gulf, ycleped, in Scottish 


ST. ROMANES WELL. 


273 


phrase, the jaw-hole, in other words, an uncovered common 
sewer. The local situation of this receptacle of filth was well 
known to Mr. Touchwood; for Saunders Jaup was at the very 
head of those who held out for the practices of their fathers, 
and still maintained those ancient and unsavory customs which 
our traveler had in so many instances succeeded in abating. 
Guided, therefore, by his nose, the Nabob made a considerable 
circuit to avoid the displeasure and danger of passing this filthy 
puddle at the nearest, and by that means fell upon Scylla as he 
sought to avoid Charybdis. In plain language, he approached 
so near the bank of a little rivulet, which in that place passed 
betwixt tbe foot-path and the horse-road, that he lost his footing, 
and fell into the channel of the streamlet from a height of three 
or four feet. It was thought that the noise of his fall, or at least 
his call for assistance, must have been heard in the house of 
Saunders Jaup ; but that honest person was, according to his 
own account, at that time engaged in the exercise of the even- 
ing — an excuse which passed current, although Saunders was 
privately heard to allege, that the town would have been the 
quieter, “ if the auld meddling busy-body had bidden still in the 
burn for gude and a’.” 

But fortune had provided better for poor Touchwood, whose 
foibles, as they rose out of the most excellent motives, would 
have ill deserved so severe a fate. A passenger who heard him 
shout for help, ventured cautiously to the side of the bank, 
down which he had fallen ; and, after ascertaining the nature 
of the ground as carefully as the darkness permitted, was at 
length, and not without some effort, enabled to assist him out 
of the channel of the rivulet. 

“ Are you hurt materially } ” said this good Samaritan to the 
object of his care. 

“ No — no — d — n it — no,” said Touchwood, extremely angry 
at his disaster, and the cause of it. “ Do you think I, who have 
been at the summit of Mount Athos, where the precipice sinks 
a thousand feet on the sea, care a farthing about such a fall as 
this is 

But, as he spoke, he reeled, and his kind assistant caught 
him by the arm to prevent his falling. 

“ I fear you are more hurt than you suppose, sir,” said the 
stranger ; “ permit me to go home along with you.” 

“With all my heart,” said Touchwood; “for, though it is 
impossible I can" need help in such a foolish matter, yet I am 
equally obliged to you, friend ; and if the Cleikum Inn be not 
out of your road, I will take your arm so far, and thank you to 
the boot.” 


274 


ST. EONAN^S WELL. 


“ It is much at your service, sir,” said the stranger ; “ in- 
deed, I was thinking to lodge there for the night.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” resumed Touchwood ; “ you shall 
be my guest, and I will make them look after you in proper 
fashion — You seem to be a very civil sort of fellow, and I do not 
find your arm inconvenient — it is the rheumatism makes me walk 
so ill — the pest of all that have been in hot climates when they 
settle among these d — d fogs.” 

“ Lean as hard and walk as slow as you will, sir,” said the 
benevolent assistant — “ this is a rough street.” 

‘'Yes, sir — and why is it rough?” answered Touchwood, 
“Why, because the old pig-headed fool, Saunders Jaup, will not 
allow it to be made smooth. There he sits, sir, and obstructs 
all rational improvement ; and, if a man would not fall into his 
infernal putrid gutter, and so become an abomination unto him- 
self and odious to others, for his whole life to come, he runs 
the risk of breaking his neck, as I have done to-night.” 

“ I am afraid, sir,” said his companion, “ you have fallen on 
the most dangerous side. — You remember Swift’s proverb, ‘The 
more dirt the less hurt.’ ” 

“ But why should there be either dirt or hurt in a well- 
regulated place ?” answered Touchwood — “ Why should not men 
be able to go about their affairs at night, in such a hamlet as 
this, without either endangering necks or noses ? — Our Scottish 
magistrates are worth nothing, sir — nothing at all. Oh for a 
Turkish cadi, now, to trounce the scoundrel — or the Mayor of 
Calcutta, to bring him into his court — or were it but an English 
Justice of the Peace that is newly included in the commission 
— they would abate the villain’s nuisance with a vengeance on 
him — But here we are — this is the Cleikum Inn. — Hallo — 
hilloa — house ! — Eppie Anderson ! — Beenie Chambermaid ! — 
boy Boots ! — Mrs. Dods ! — are you all of you asleep and dead ? 
— Here have I been half murdered, and you let me stand bawl- 
ing at the door ! ” 

Eppie Anderson came with a light, and so did Beenie 
Chambermaid with another; but no sooner did they look upon 
the pair who stood in the porch under the huge sign that swung 
to and fro with heavy creaking, than Beenie screamed, flung 
away her candle, though a four in the pound, and in a newly- 
japanned candlestick, and fled one way, while Eppie Anderson, 
echoing the yell, brandished her light round her head like a 
Bacchante flourishing her torch, and ran off in another direction. 

“ Ay — I must be a bloody spectacle,” said Mr. Touchwood, 
letting himself fall heavily upon his assistant’s shoulder, and 
wiping his face, which trickled with wet — “ I did not think I 


ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


275 

had been so seriously hurt ; but I find my weakness now — I 
must have lost much blood.” 

“ I hope you are still mistaken,” said the stranger ; “ but 
here lies the way to the kitchen — we shall find light there, since 
no one chooses to bring it to us.” 

He assisted the old gentleman into the kitchen, where a 
lamp, as well as a bright fire, was burning, by the light of 
which he could easily discern that the supposed blood was only 
water of the rivulet, and, indeed, none of the cleanest, although 
much more so than the sufferer would have found it a little 
lower, where the stream is joined by the superfluities of Saun- 
ders Jaup’s palladium. Relieved by his new friend’s repeated 
assurances that such was the case, the senior began to bustle 
up a little, and his companion, desirous to render him every 
assistance, went to the door of the kitchen to call for a basin 
and water. Just as he was about to open the door, the voice 
of Mrs. Dods was heard as she descended the stairs, in a tone 
of indignation by no means unustlal to her, yet mingled at the 
same time with a few notes that sounded like unto the quaver- 
ings of consternation.” 

“ Idle limmers — silly sluts — I warrant nane o’ ye will ever 
see onything waur than yoursell, ye silly taupies — Ghaist, 
indeed ! — I’ll warrant it’s some idle dub-skelper frae the Waal, 
coming after some o’ yoursells on nae honest errand — Ghaist, 
indeed ! — Hand up the candle, John Ostler — I’se warrant it a 
twa-hancled ghaist, and the door left on the sneck — There’s 
somebody in the kitchen — gang forward wi’ the lantern, John 
Ostler.” 

At this critical moment the stranger opened the door of the 
kitchen, and beheld the dame advancing at the head of her 
household troops. The ostler and humpbacked postilion, one 
bearing a stable-lantern and a hay-fork, the other a rushlight 
and a broom, constituted the advanced guard ; Mrs. Dods 
herself formed the centre, talking loud and brandishing a pair 
of tongs ; while the two maids, like troops not much to be 
trusted after their recent defeat, followed, cowering, in the rear. 
But notwithstanding this admirable disposition, no sooner had 
the stranger shown his face, and pronounced the words “ Mrs. 
Dods,” than a panic seized the whole array. The advanced 
guard recoiled in consternation, the ostler upsetting Mrs. Dods 
in the confusion of his retreat; while she, grappling with him 
in her terror, secured him by the ears and hair, and they joined 
their cries together in hideous chorus. The two maidens re- 
sumed their former flight, and took refuge in the darksome 
den, entitled their bedroom, while the humpbacked postilion 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


276 

fled like the wind into the stable,- and, with professional instinctj 
began in the extremity of his terror, to saddle a horse. 

Meanwhile, the guest whose appearance had caused this 
combustion, plucked the roaring ostler from above Mrs. Dods, 
and pushing him aw^ay with a hearty slap on the shoulder, pro- 
ceeded to raise and encourage the fallen landlady, inquiring, at 
the same time, “ What, in the devil’s name, was the cause of 
all this senseless confusion ? ” 

“ And what is the reason, in Heaven’s name,” answered the 
matron, keeping her eyes firmly shut, and still shrewish in her 
expostulation, though in the very extremity of terror, “what is 
the reason that you should come and frighten a decent house, 
where you met naething but the height of civility ? ” 

“ And why should I frighten you, Mrs. Dods, or, in one 
word, w'hat is the meaning of all this nonsensical terror.? ” 

“ Are not you,” said Mrs. Dods, opening her eyes a little as 
she spoke, “ the ghaist of Francis Tirl .? ” 

“ I am Francis Tyrrel, unquestionably my old friend.” 

“ I kend it ! I kend it ! ” answ'ered the honest woman, re- 
lapsing into her agony ; and I think ye might be ashamed of 
yoursell, that are a ghaist, and have nae better to do than to 
frighten a puir auld alewife.” 

“ On my w'ord, I am no ghost, but a living man,” answered 
Tyrrel. 

“ Were you no murdered than .? ” said Mrs. Dods, still in an 
uncertain voice, and only partially opening her eyes — “ Are ye 
very sure ye werena murdered .? ” 

“ Why, not that ever I heard of, certainly, dame,” replied 
Tyrrel. 

“ But /shall be murdered presently,” said old Touchwood 
from the kitchen, where he had hitherto remained a mute 
auditor of this extraordinary scene — “ / shall be murdered, 
unless you fetch me some water without delay.” 

“ Coming, sir, coming,” answered Dame Dods, her profes- 
sonal reply being as familiar to her as that of poor Francis’s 
“ Anon, anon, sir.” “ As I live by honest reckonings,” said 
she, fully collecting herself, and giving a glance of more com- 
posed temper at Tyrrel, “ I believe it is yoursell, Maister Frank, 
in blood and body after a’ — and see if I dinna gie a proper sort- 
ing to yon tw^a silly jauds that gard me mak a bogle of you, and 
a fule of mysell — Ghaist ! my certie, I sail ghaist them — if they 
had their heads as muckle on their wark as on their dafflng, they 
wad play nae sic pliskies — it’s the wanton steed that scaurs at 
the wdndlestrae — Ghaist ! wha e’er heard of ghaistsin an honest 
house .? Naebody need fear bogles that has a conscience void 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


277 

of offence. — But I am blithe that MacTurk hasna murdered ye 
when a’ is dune, Maister Frankie.” 

Come this way, Mother Dods, if you would not have me 
do a mischief ! ” exclaimed Touchwood, grasping a plate which 
stood on the dresser, as if he were about to heave it at the land- 
lady, by way of recalling her attention. 

“ For the love of Heaven, dinna break it ! ” exclaimed the 
alarmed landlady, knowing that Touchwood’s effervescence of 
impatience sometimes expended itself at the expense of her 
crockery, though it was afterward liberally atoned for. “ Lord, 
sir, are ye out of your wits ? — it breaks a set, ye ken — Godsake, 
put doun the cheeny plate, and try your hand on the delf-ware ! 
— it will just make as good a jingle — But, Lord baud a grip o’ 
us ! now I look at ye, what can hae come ower ye, and what sort 
of a plight are ye in — Wait till 1 fetch water and a towel.” 

In fact, the miserable guise of her new lodger now overcame 
the dame’s curiosity to inquire after the fate of her earlier ac- 
quaintance, and she gave her instant and exclusive attention to 
Mr. Touchwood, with many exclamations, while aiding him to 
perform the task of ablution and abstersion. Her two fugitive 
handmaidens had by this time returned to the kitchen, and en- 
devored to suppress a smuggled laugh at, the recollection of 
their mistress’s panic, by acting very officiously in Mr. Touch- 
wood’s service. By dint of washing and drying, the token of 
the sable stains was at length removed, and the veteran became, 
with some difficulty, satisfied that he had been more dirtied m l 
frightened than hurt. 

Tyrrel, in the meantime, stood looking on with wonder, 
imagining that he beheld in the features which emerged from 
a mask of mud the countenance of an old friend. After the 
operation was ended, he could not help addressing himself to 
Mr. Touchwood, to demand whether he had not the pleasure to 
see a friend to whom he had been obliged when at Smyrna, for 
some kindness respecting his money matters ? 

“ Not worth speaking of — not worth speaking of,” said Touch- 
wood hastily. “ Glad to see you, though — glad to see you. 
Yes, here I am ; you will find me the same good-natured old 
fool that I was at Smvrna — never look how T am to get in 
money again — always laying it out. Never mind — it was 
written in my forehead, as the Turk says. I will go up now 
and change mv dress — you will sup with me when T come back 
— Mrs. Dods will toss us up something — a brandered fowl will 
be best, Mrs. Dods, with some mushrooms, and get us a jug of 
mulled wine — plottie, as you call it — to put the recollection of 
the old Presbyterian’s common sewer out of my head.” 


278 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


So saying, up stairs marched the traveler to his own apart- 
ment, while Tyrrel, seizing upon a candle, was about to do the 
same. 

“ Mr Touchwood is in the blue room, Mrs. Dods ; I suppose 
I may take possession of the yellow one ” 

“'Suppose naething about the matter, Maister Frankie Tirl 
till ye tell me downright where ye hae been a’ this time, and 
whether ye hae beenpnurdered or no.” 

“ I think you may be pretty well satisfied of that, Mrs. 
Dods ? ” 

“ Troth ! and so I am in a sense ; and yet it gars me grue 
to look upon ye, sae mony days and weeks it has been since I 
thought ve were rotten in the moulds. And now to see ye 
standins: before me hale and feir, and crying for a bedroom like 
ither folk ! ” 

“ One would almost suppose, my good friend,” said Tyrrel, 
“ that you were sorry at my having come alive again.” 

“ It’s no for that,” replied Mrs. Dods, who was peculiarly 
ingenious in the mode of framing and stating what she con- 
ceived to be her grievances ; “ but is it not a queer thing for a 
decent man like yoiirsell, Maister Tirl, to be leaving your 
lodgings without a word spoken, and me put to a’ these charges 
in seeking for your dead body, and very near taking my busi- 
ness out of honest Maister Bindloose’s hands, because he kend 
the cantrips of the like of you better than I did 1 — and than 
they hae putten up an advertisement down at the Waal yonder, 
wi’ a’ their names at it, setting ye forth, Maister Frankie, as 
ane of the greatest blackguards unhanged ; and wha, div ye 
think, is to keep ye in a creditable house, if that’s the character 
ye get .? ” 

“You may leave that to me, Mrs. Dods — I assure you that 
matter shall be put to rights to your satisfaction ; and I think, 
so long as we have known each other, you may take mv word 
that I am not undeserving the shelter of your roof for a single 
night (I shall ask it no longer), until my character is suffi- 
ciently cleared. It was for that purpose I chiefly came back 
again.” 

“ Came back again ! ” said Mrs. Dods. “ I profess ye made 
me start, Maister Tirl, and you looking sae pale, too. But I 
think,” she added, straining after a joke, “ if ye were a ghaist, 
seeing we are such auld acquaintance, 3 ^e wadna wish to spoil 
my custom, but would just walk decently up and down the 
auld castle wa’s, or maybe down at the kirk yonder — 'there have 
been awfu’ things dune in that kirk and kirkyard — I whiles 
dinna like to look that way, Maister Frankie.” 


ST, RON-AN'S WELL, 


279 

“ I am much of your mind, mistress,’’ said Tyrrel, with a 
sigh ; “ and, indeed, I do in one sense resemble the appari- 
tions you talk of ; for, like them, and to as little purpose, I 
stalk about scenes where my happiness departed. But I speak 
riddles to you, Mrs. Dods — the plain truth is, that I met with 
an accident on the day I last left your house, the effects of 
which detained me at some distance from St. Ronan’s till this 
very day.” 

“ Hegh, sirs, and ye were sparing of your trcuble, that 
wadna write a bit line, or send a bit message ! — Ye might hae 
thought folk wad hae been vexed eneugh about ye, foiby under- 
taking iourneys, and hiring folk to seek for your dead body.” 

“ I shall willingly pay all reasonable charges which my dis- 
appearance may have occasioned,” answered her guest ; “ and 
I assure you, once for all, that my remaining for seme time 
quiet at Marchthorn, arose partly from illness, and partly from 
business of a very pressing and particular nature.” 

“ At Marchthorn ! ’ exclaimed Dame Dods, “ heard ever man 
the like o’ that ! — And where did ye put up in Marchthorn, an 
ane may mak bauld to speer .? ” 

“ At the Black Bud,” replied Tyrrel. 

“Ay, that’s auld Tam Lowrie’s — a very decent man, Thamas 
— and a douce creditable house — nane of your flisk-ma-hoys — I 
am glad ye made choice of sic gude quarters, neighbor; for I 
am beginning to think ye are but a queer ane — ye look as if 
butter wadna melt in your mouth, but I sail w^arrant cheese no 
choke ye. — But I’ll thank ye to gang your ways into the parlor, 
for I am no like to get muckle mair out o’ ye, it’s like ; and ye 
are standing here just in the gate, when we hae the supper to 
dish.” 

Tyrrel, glad to be released from the examination to which 
his landlady’s curiosity had without ceremony subjected him, 
walked into the parlor, where he was presently joined by Mr. 
Touchwood, newly attired, and high in spirits. 

“ Here comes our supper ! ” he exclaimed. — “ Sit ye down, 
and let us see what Mrs. Dods has done for us. — I profess, 
mistress, your plottie is excellent, ever since 1 taught )ou to 
mix the spices in the right proportion.” 

“ I am glad the plottie pleases ye, sir — but T think I kend 
gav weel how to make it before I saw' your honor— Maister 
Tirl can tell that, for mony a browst of it I hae brewed lang 
syne for him and the callant Valentine Bulmer.” 

This ill-timed observation extorted a groan from Tyrrel ; but 
the traveler, running on wdth his own recollections, did not 
appear to notice his emotion. 


28 o 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


“ You are a conceited old woman,” said Mr. Touchwood ; 
“ how the devil should any one know how to mix spices so well 
as he who has been where they grow ? — I- have seen the sun 
ripening nutmegs and cloves, and here it can hardly fill a peas- 
cod, by Jupiter ! Ah, Tyrrel, the merry nights we have had at 
vSmyrna ! — Gad, I think the gammon and the good wine taste 
all the better in a land where folks hold them to be sinful in- 
dulgence — Gad, I believe many a good Moslem is of the same 
opinion — that same prohibition of their prophet’s gives a flavor 
to the ham, and a relish to the Cyprus. — Do you remember old 
Cogia Hassein, with his green turban ? — I once played him a 
trick, and put a pint of brandy into his sherbet. Egad, the old 
fellow took care never to discover the cheat until he had got to 
the bottom of the flagon, and then he strokes his long white 
beard, and says, ‘ Ullah Kerim’ — that is, ‘Heaven is merciful,’ 
Mrs. Dods, Mr. Tyrrel knows the meaning of it. — Ullah Kerim, 
says he, after he had drunk about a gallon of brandy-punch ! — - 
Ullah Kerim, says the hypocritical old rogue, as if he had done 
the finest thing in the world ! ” 

“ And what for no ? What for shouldna the honest man say 
a blessing after his drap punch ? ” demanded Mrs. Dods ; “ it 
was better, I ween, than blasting, and blawing, and swearing, 
as if folks shouldna be thankful for the creature-comforts.” 

“ Well said, old Dame Dods,” replied the traveler ; “ that 
is a right hostess’s maxim, and worthy of Mrs. Quickly herself. 
Here is to thee, and I pray ye to pledge me before ye leave the 
room.” 

“Troth, I’ll pledge naebody the night, Maister Touchwood ; 
for, what wi’ the upcast and terror that I got a wee while syne, 
and what wi’ the bit taste that I behoved to take of the plottie 
while I was making it, my head is sair enough distressed the 
night already. — Maister Tirl, the yellow room is ready for ye 
when you like ; and, gentlemen, as the morn is the Sabbath, I 
canna be keeping the servant queans out of their beds to wait 
on ye ony langer, for they will make it an excuse. for lying till 
aught o’clock on the Lord’s day. So, when your plottie is done, 
I’ll be muckle obliged to ye to light the bedroom candles, and 
put out the double moulds, and e’en show yoursells to your 
beds ; for douce folks, sic as the like of you, should set an 
example by ordinary. — And so, gude-night to yo baith.” 

“ By my faith,” said I'ouchwood, as she withdrew, “ our dame 
turns as obstinate as a Pacha with three tails ! — We have her 
gracious permission to finish our mug, however ; so here is to 
your health once more, Mr. Tyrrel, wishing you a hearty wel- 
come to your own country.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


281 


“ I thank you, Mr. Touchwood,” answered Tyrrel ; “ and I 
return you the same good wishes, with, as I sincerely hope, a 
much greater chance of their being realized — You relieved me, 
sir, at a time when the villianyof an agent, prompted, as I have 
reason to think, by an active and powerful enemy, occasioned 
my being, for a time, pressed for funds. — I made remittances 
to the Ragion you dealt with, to acquit myself at least of the 
pecuniary part of my obligation ; but the bills were returned, 
because, it was stated, you had left Smyrna.” 

“Very true — very true — left Smyrna, and here I am in Scot- 
land — as for the bills, we will speak of them another time — ■ 
something due for picking me out of the gutter.” 

“ I shall make no deduction on that account,” said Tyrrel, 
smiling, though in no jocose mood ; “ and I beg you not to 
mistake me. The circumstances of embarrassment under which 
you found me at Smyrna were merely temporary — I am most 
able and willing to pay my debt ; and, let me add, I am most 
desirous to do so.” 

“ Another time — another time,” said Mr. Touchwood — “ time 
enough before us, Mr. Tyrrel — besides, at Smyrna, you talked 
of a lawsuit — law is a lick-penny, Mr. Tyrrel — no counselor like 
the pound in purse.” 

“ For my lawsuit,” said Tyrrel, “ I am fully provided.” 

“ But have you good advice i* — Have you good advice ? ” said 
Touchwood,; “answer me that.” 

“ I have advised with my lawyers,” answered Tyrrel, inter- 
nally vexed to find that his friend was much disposed to make 
his generosity upon the former occasion a pretext for prying 
further into his affairs now than he thought polite or convenient, 

“ With 3 'our counsel learned in the law — eh, my dear boy "i 
But the advice you should take is of some traveled friend, well 
acquainted with mankind and the world — some one that has 
lived double your years, and is maybe looking out for some bare 
young fellow that he may do a little good to — one that might be 
willing to help you further than I can pretend to guess — for, as 
to yoLirlawver, you get just your guinea’s worth from him — not 
even so much as the baker’s bargain, thirteen to the dozen.” 

“ I think I should not trouble myself to go far in search of a 
friend such as you describe,” said Tyrrel, who coind not affect 
to misunderstand the senior’s drift, “when I was near Mr. 
Peregrine Touchwood ; but the truth is, my affairs are at present 
so much complicated with those of others, whose secrets 1 have 
no right to communicate, that I cannot have the advantage of 
consulting you, or any other friend. It is possible I may be 
soon obliged to lay aside this reserve, and vindicate myself 


282 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


before the whole public. I will not fail, when that time shall 
arrive, to take an early opportunity of confidential communica- 
tion with you.” 

“ That is right — confidential is the word — No person ever 
made a confidant of me who repented it — Think what the 
Pacha might have made of it, had he taken my advice, and cut 
through the Isthmus of Suez. — Turk and Christian, men of all 
tongues and countries, used to consult old Touchwood, from 
the building of a mosque down to the settling of an agio . — But 
come — Good-night — good-night.” 

So saying, he took up his bedroom light, and extinguished 
one of those which stood on the table, nodded to Tyrrel to dis- 
charge his share of the duty imposed by Mrs. Dods with the 
same punctuality, and they withdrew to their several apartments, 
entertaining very different sentiments of each other. 

“ A troublesome, inquisitive old gentleman,” said Tyrrel to 
himself; ‘ I remember him narrowly escaping the bastinado 
at Smyrna, for thrusting his advice on the Turkish cadi — and 
then I lie under a considerable obligation to him, giving him a 
sort of right to annOy me — Well, I must parry his impertinence 
as I can.” 

“A shy cock this Frank Tyrrel,” thought the traveler; “a 
very complete dodger ! — But no matter — 1 shall wind him were 
he to double like a fox — I am resolved to make his matters my 
own, and if / cannot carry him through, 1 know not who can.” 

Having formed this philanthropic resolution, Mr. Touch- 
wood threw himself into bed, which luckily declined exactly at 
the right angle, and, full of self-complacency, consigned him- 
self to slumber. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. 

MEDIATION. 

So, begone ! 

* We will not now be troubled with reply ; 

We offer fair, take it advisedly. 

King Henry IV., Part I. 

It had been the purpose of Tyrrel, by rising and breakfast- 
ing early, to avoid again meeting Mr. Touchwood, having upon 
his hands a matter in which that officious gentleman’s inter- 
ference was likely to prove troublesome. His character, he 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


283 

was aware, had been assailed at the Spa in the most public 
manner, and in the most public manner he was resolved to 
demand redress, conscious that whatever other important con- 
cerns had brought him to Scotland, must necessarily be post- 
poned to the vindication of his honor. He was determined, for 
this purpose, to go down to the rooms when the company was 
assembled at the breakfast hour, and had just taken his hat to 
set out, when he was interrupted by Mrs. Dods, who, announcing 
“ a gentleman that was speering for him,” ushered into the 
chamber a very fashionable young man in a military surtout, 
covered with silk lace and fur, and wearing a foraging-cap ; a 
dress now too familiar to be distinguished, but which at that 
time was used only by geniuses of a superior order. The 
stranger was neither handsome nor plain, but had in his appear- 
ance a good deal of pretension, and the cool easy superiority 
which belong to high breeding. On his part, he surveyed 
Tyrrel ; and, as his appearance differed, perhaps, from that for 
which the exterior of the Cleikum Inn had prepared him, he 
abated something of the air with which he had entered the 
room, and politely announced himself as Captain Jekyl, of the 
Guards (presenting, at the same time, his ticket). 

“He presumed he spoke to Mr. Marligny ? ” 

“ To Mr. Francis Tyrrel, sir,” replied Tyrrel, drawing him- 
self up — “ Martigny was my mother’s name — 1 have never 
borne it.” 

“ I am not here for the purpose of disputing that point, Mr. 
Tyrrel, though I am not entitled to admit what my principal’s 
information leads him to doubt.” 

“Your principal, I presume, is Sir Bingo Binks,” said 
Tyrrel. “ I have not forgotten that there is an unfortunate 
affair between us.” 

“ I have not the honor to know Sir Bingo Binks,” said Cap- 
tain Jekyl. “ I come on the part of the Earl of Etherington.” 

Tvrrel stood silent for a moment, and then said, “ 1 am at 
a loss to know what the gentleman who calls himself Earl of 
Etherington can have to say 10 me, through the medium of 
such a messenger as yourself. Captain Jekyl. I should have 
supposed that, considering our unhappy relationship, and the 
terms on which we stand toward each other, the lawyers were 
the litter negotiators between us.” 

“Sir,” said Captain Jekyl, “you are misunderstanding my 
errand. I am come on no message of hostile import from Lord 
Etherington — I am aware of the connection betwixt you, which 
would render such an office altogether contradictory to common 
sense and the laws of nature ; and I assure you, I would lay 


284 J^ONAN’S WELL. 

down my life rather than be concerned in an affair so un- 
natural. I would act, if possible, as a mediator betwixt you.” 

They had hitherto remained standing. Mr. Tyrrel now 
offered his guest a seat ; and, having assumed one himself, he 
broke the awkward pause which ensued by observing, “ I 
should be happy, after experiencing such a long course of in- 
justice and persecution from your friend, to learn, even at this 
late period, Captain Jekyl, anything which can make me think 
better, either of him, or of his purpose toward me and toward 
others.” 

“ Mr. Tyrrel,” said Captain Jekyl, “ you must allow me to 
speak with candor. There is too great a stake betwixt your 
brother and you to permit you to be friends ; but I do not see 
it is necessary that you should therefore be mortal enemies.” 

“I am not my brother’s enemy, Captain Jekyl,” said Tyrrel 
— “ I have never been so — His friend I cannot be, and he 
knows but too well the insurmountable barrier which his own 
conduct has placed between us.” 

“I am aware,” said Captain Jekyl, slowly and expressively, 
“generally, at least, of the particulars of your unfortunate 
disagreement.” 

“ If so,” said Tyrrel, coloring, “ you must be also aware 
with what extreme pain I feel myself compelled to enter on 
such a subject with a total stranger — a stranger, too, the friend 

and confidant of one wfiio But I will not hurt your feelings. 

Captain Jekyl, but rather endeavor to suppress my own. In 
one w'ord, I beg to be favored with the import of your com- 
munication, as I am obliged to go down to the Spa this morn- 
ing, in order to put to rights some matters there w'hich concern 
me nearly.” 

“ If you mean the cause of your absence from an appoint- 
ment w’ith Sir Bingo Binks,” said Captain Jekyl, “ the matter 
has been already completely explained. I pulled dowm the 
offensive placard wfith my owm hand, and rendered myself 
responsible for your honor to any one who should presume 
to hold it in future doubt.” 

“ Sir,” said Tyrrel, very much surprised, “ I am obliged to 
you for your intention, the more so as I am ignorant how^ I 
have merited such interference. It is not, how'ever, quite satis- 
factory to me, because I am accustomed to be the guardian of 
my own honor.” 

“ An easy task, I presume, in all cases, Mr. Tyrrel,” an- 
swered Jekyl, “ but peculiarly so in the present, wfiien you will 
find no one so hardy as to assail it. — My interference, indeed, 
would have been unjustifiably officious, had I not been at the 


ST. RON’AN^S WELL. 


285 

moment undertaking a commission implying confidential inter- 
course with you. For the sake of my own character, it became 
necessary to establish yours. I know the truth of the whole 
affair from my friend, the Earl of Etherington, who ought to 
thank Heaven so long as he lives, that saved him on that occa- 
sion from the commission of a very great crime.” 

“Your friend, sir, has had, in the course of his life, much 
to thank Heaven for, but more for which to ask God’s forgive- 
ness.” 

“I am no divine, sir,” replied Captain Jekyl, with spirit; 
“ but I have been told that the same may be said of most men 
alive.” 

“ I, at least, cannot dispute it,” said Tyrrel ; “ but, to pro- 
ceed. — Have you found yourself at liberty, Captain Jekyl, to 
deliver to the public the whole particulars of a rencontre so 
singular as that which took place between your friend and 
me ? ” 

“ I have not, sir,” said Jekyl — “ I judged it a matter of 
great delicacy, and which each of you had the like interest to 
preserve secret.” 

“ May I beg to know, then,” said Tyrrel, “ how it was possible 
for you to vindicate my absence from Sir Bingo’s rendezvous 
otherwise "i ” 

“It was only necessary, sir, to pledge my word as a gentle- 
man and a man of honor, characters in which I am pretty well 
known to the world, that, to my certain personal knowledge 
you were hurt in an affair with a friend of mine, the further 
particulars of w'hich prudence required should be sunk into 
oblivion. I think no one will venture to dispute my word, or to 
require more than my assurance. — If there should be any one 
very hard of faith on the occasion, I shall find a way to satisfy 
him. In the meanwhile, your outlawry has been rescinded in 
the most honorable manner ; and Sir Bingo, in consideration 
of his share in giving rise to reports so injurious to you, is 
desirous to drop all further proceedings in his original ciTirel, 
and hopes the whole matter will be forgot and forgiven on all 
sides.” 

“ Upon my word. Captain Jekyl,” answered Tyrrel, “ you 
lay me under the necessity of acknowledging obligation to you. 
You have cut a knot which I should have found it very difficult 
to unloose; for I frankly confess, that, while I was determined 
not to remain under the stigma put upon me, I should have had 
great difficulty in clearing myself without mentioning circum- 
stances, which, were it only for the sake of my father’s memory, 


286 


ST. KONAN^S WELL. 


should be buried in eternal obliviort. I hope your friend feels 
no continued inconvenience from his hurt ? ” 

“ His lordship is nearly quite recovered,” said Jekyl. 

“ And I trust he did me the justice to own, that, so far as 
my will was concerned, I am totally guiltless of the purpose of 
hurting him ? ” 

“ He does you full-justice in that and everything else,” re- 
plied Jekyl ; “ regrets the impetuosity of his own temper, and 
is determined to be on his guard against it in future.” 

“ That,” said Tyrrel, “ is so far well ; and now, may I ask 
once more, what communication you have to make to me on 
the part of your friend t — Were it from any one but him, whom 
I have found so uniformly false and treacherous, your own fair- 
ness and candor would induce me to hope that this unnatural 
quarrel might be in some sort ended by your mediation.” 

“ I then proceed, sir, under more favorable auspices than I 
expected,” said Captain Jekyl, “ to enter on my commission. — 
You are about to commence a lawsuit, Mr. Tyrrel, if Fame does 
not wrong you, for the purpose of depriving your brother of his 
estate and title.” 

“ The case is not fairly stated. Captain Jekyl,” replied 
Tyrrel ; “ I commence a lawsuit, when I do commence it, for 
the sake of ascertaining my own just rights.” 

“ It comes to the same thing eventually,” said the me- 
diator ; “ I am not called upon to decide upon the justice of 
your claims, but they are, you will allow, newly started. The 
late Countess of Etherington died in possession — open and un- 
doubted possession — of her rank in society.” 

“ If she had no real claim to it, sir,” replied Tyrrel, “ she 
had more than justice who enjoyed it so long ; and the injured 
lady whose claims were postponed, had just so much less. — 
But this is no point for you and me to discuss between us — it 
must be tried elsewhere.” 

“ Proofs, sir, of the strongest kind, will be necessary to over- 
throw a right so well established in public opinion as that of 
the present possessor of the title of Etherington.” 

Tyrrel took a paper from his pocket-book, and. handing it to 
Captain Jekyl, only answered, “ I have no thoughts of asking 
you to give up the cause of your friend ; but methinks the 
documents of which I give you a list, mav shake vour opinion 
of it.” 

Captain Jekyl read, muttering to himself, ^ Certificate of 
marriage, by the Rev. Zadock Keiiip, chaplain to the British E??i- 
bassy at Paris, between Marie de Bellroche, Cointesse de Mar- 
tigny, and the Right Honorable John Lord Oakefidale — Letters be- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


287 

tween John Earl of Etherington a?id his lady, under the title of 
Madame de Martigny — Certificate of baptmn — Declaration of the 
Earl of Etherington on his deathbed.' — All this is very well — 
but may I ask you, Mr. Tyrrel, if it is really your purpose logo 
to extremity with your brother ? ” 

“ He has forgot that he is one — he has lifted his hand against 
my life.” 

“ You have shed his blood — twice shed it,” said Jekyl, “ the 
world will not ask which brother gave the offence, but which 
received, which inflicted, the severest wound.” 

“ Your friend has inflicted one on me, sir,” said Tyrrel, 
“ that will bleed while I have the power of memory.” 

“ I understand you, sir,” said Captain Jekyl ; “ you mean 
the affair of Miss Mowbray ” 

“ Spare me on that subject, sir !” said Tyrrel. “ Hitherto I 
have disputed my most important rights — rights which involved 
my rank in society, my fortune, the honor of my mother, with 
something like composure ; but do not say more on the topic 
you have touched upon, unless you would have before you a 
madman ! — Is it possible for you, sir, to hav^e heard even the 
outline of this story, and to imagine that I can ever reflect on 
the cold-blooded and most inhuman stratagem, which this friend 

of yours prepared for two unfortunates, without ” He 

started up, and walked impetuously to and fro. Since the 
Fiend himself interrupted the happiness of perfect innocence, 
there was never such an act of treachery — never such schemes 
of happiness destroyed — never such inevitable misery prepared 
for two wretches who had the idiocy to repose perfect confidence 
in him ! — Had there been passion in his conduct, it had been 
the act of a man — a wicked man, indeed, but still a human 
creature, acting under the influence of human feelings — but his 
was the deed of a calm, cold, calculating demon, actuated by 
the basest and most sordid motives of self-interest, joined, as I 
firmly believe, to an early and inveterate hatred of one whose 
claims he considered at variance with his own.” 

“ I am sorry to see you in such a temper,” said Captain Jekyl, 
calmly ; ‘‘ Lord Etherington, I trust, acted on very different 
motives than those vou impute to him ; and if you will but listen 
to me, perhaps something maybe struck out which may accom- 
modate these unhappy disputes.” 

“ Sir,” said Tyrrel, sitting down again, “ I will listen to you 
with calmness, as I would remain calm under the probe of a 
surgeon tenting a festered wound. But when you touch me to 
the quick, when you prick the very nerve, you cannot expect 
me to endure without wincing.” 


288 


ST, SONANTS WELL, 


“ I will endeavor, then, to be as brief in the operation as I 
can,’^ replied Captain Jekyl, who possessed the advantage of 
the most admirable composure during the whole conference. 
“ I conclude, Mr. Tyrrel, that the peace, happiness, and honor 
of Miss Mowbray, are dear to you ? ” 

“ Who dare impeach her honor ? said Tyrrel, fiercely ; then 
checking himself, added in a more moderate tone, but one of 
deep feeling, “ They are dear to me, sir, as my eyesight.” 

“ My friend holds them in equal regard,” said the Captain ; 
“ And has come to the resolution of doing her the most ample 
justice.” 

“ He can do her justice no^ otherwise, than by ceasing to 
haunt this neighborhood, to think, to speak, even to dream of 
her.” 

Lord Etherington thinks otherwise,” said Captain Jekyl ; 
“he believes that if Miss Mowbray has sustained any wrong at 
his hands, which, of course, 1 am not called upon to admit, it 
will be best repaired by the offer to share with her his title, his 
rank, and his fortune.” 

“ His title, rank, and fortune, sir, are as much a falsehood 
as he is himself,” said Tyrrel, with violence. — “ Marry Clara 
Mowbray } never ! ” 

“ My friend’s fortune, you will observe,” replied Jekyl, “ does 
not rest entirely upon the event of the lawsuit with which you, 
Mr. Tyrrel, now threaten him. — Deprive him, if you can, of the 
Oakendale estate, he has still a large patrimony by his mother ; 
and besides, as to his marriage with Clara Mowbray, he con- 
ceives, that unless it should be the lady’s wish to have the 
ceremony repeated, to which he is most desirous to defer his 
own opinion, they have only to declare that it has already 
passed between them.” 

“ A trick, sir ! ” said Tyrrel, “ a vile infamous trick ! of which 
the lowest wretch in Newgate would be ashamed — the imposi- 
tion of one person for another.” 

“ Of that, Mr. Tyrrel, I have seen no evidence whatever. 
The clergyman’s certificate is clear — Francis Tyrrel is united 
to Clara Mowbray in the holy bands of wedlock — such is the 
tenor — there is a copy — nay, stop one instant, if you please, 
sir. You say there was an imposition in the case — I have no 
doubt but you speak what you believe, and that Miss Mowbray 
told you. She was surprised — forced in some measure from 
the husband she had just married — ashamed to meet herfoimer 
lover, to whom, doubtless, she had made many a vow of love, 
and ne’er a true one — what wonder that, unsupported by her 
bridegroom, she should have changed her tone, and thrown all 


ST. RONAN^S PVELL. 


289 

the blame of her own inconstancy on the absent swain ? — A 
woman, at a pinch so critical, will" make the most improbable 
excuse, rather than be found guilty on her own confession.” 

“There must be no jesting in this case,” said Tyrrel, his 
cheek becoming pale, and his voice altered with passion. 

“ I am quite serious, sir,’- replied Jekyl; “and there is no 
law court in Britain that would take the lady’s word — all she 
has to offer, and that in her own cause — against a whole body 
of evidence, direct and circumstantial, showing that she was 
by her own free consent married to the gentleman who now 
claims her hand. — Forgive me, sir — I see you are much agitated 
— I do not mean to dispute your right of believing what you 
think is most creditable — I only use the freedom of pointing out 
to you the impression which the evidence is likely to make on 
the minds of indifferent persons.” 

“ Your friend,” answered Tyrrel, affecting a composure 
which, however, he was far from possessing, “ may think by 
such arguments to screen his villainy ; but it cannot avail him 
— the truth is known to Heaven — it is known to me — and there 
is, besides, one indifferent witness upon earth, who can testify 
that the most abominable imposition was practiced on Miss 
Mowbray.” 

“ You mean her cousin — Hannah Irwin, I think, is her 
name,” answered Jekyl ; “ you see I am fully acquainted with 
all the circumstances of the case. But where is Hannah Irwin 
to be found ? ” 

“ She will appear, doubtless, in Heaven’s good time, and to 
the confusion of him who now imagines the only witness of his 
treachery — the only one who could tell the truth of this com- 
plicated mystery — either no longer lives, or, at least, cannot be 
brought forward against him, to the ruin of his schemes. Yes, 
sir, that slight observation of yours has more than explained to 
me why your friend, or to call him by his true name, Mr. Valen- 
tine Buhner, has not commenced his machinations sooner, and 
also why he has commenced them now. He thinks himself 
certain that Hannah Irwin is not now in Britain, or to be pro- 
duced in a court of justice — he may find himself mistaken.” 

“ My friend seems perfectly confident of the issue of his 
cause,” answered Jekyl ; “but, for the lady’s sake, he is most 
unwilling to prosecute a suit which must be attended with so 
many circumstances of painful exposure.” 

“ Exposure, indeed ! ” answered Tyrrel ; “ thanks to the 
traitor who laid a mine so fearful, and who now affects to be 
reluctant to fire it. — Oh ! how I am bound to curse that affinity 
that restrains my hands ! I would be content to be the mean- 


290 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


est and vilest of society, for one hour of vengeance on this 
unexampled hypocrite !— One thing is certain, sir — your friend 
will have no living victim. His persecution will kill Clara 
Mowbray, and fill up the cup of his crimes with the murder of 

one of the sweetest 1 shall grow a woman if I say more 

on the subject ! ” 

“My friend,” said Jekyl, “since you like best to have him 
so defined, is as desirous as you can be to spare the lady’s feel- 
ings ; and with that view, not reverting to former passages, he 
has laid before her brother a proposal of alliance, with which 
Mr. Mowbray is highly pleased.” 

“ Ha ! said Tyrrel, starting — “ And the lady ? ” — 

“ And the lady so far proved favorable, as to consent that 
Lord Etherington shall visit Shaws Castle.” 

“ Her consent must have been extorted ! ” exclaimed 
Tyrrel. 

“ It was given voluntarily,” said Jekyl, “ as I am led to un- 
derstand ; unless, perhaps, in so far as the desire to veil these 
very unpleasing transactions may have operated, I think natu- 
rally enough, to induce her to sink them in eternal secrecy, by 
accepting Lord Etherington’s hand. — I see, sir, I give you 
pain, and am sorry for it.— I have no title to call upon you for 
any exertion of generosity ; but should such be Miss Mowbray’s 
sentiments, is it too much to expect of you, that you will not 
compromise the lady’s honor by insisting upon former claims, 
and opening up disreputable transactions so long past ? ” 

“Captain jekyl,” said Tyrrel solemnly, “I have no claims. 
Whatever I might have had were canceled by the act of 
treachery through which your friend endeavored too success* 
fully to supplant me. Were Clara Islowbray as free from het 
pretended marriage as law could pronounce her, still with me 
— nie^ at least of all men in the world — the obstacle must ever 
remain, that the nuptial benediction has been pronounced over 
her and the man whom I must for once call hrotherr — He 
stopped at that word, as if it had cost him agony to pronounce 
it, and then resumed : — “ No, sir, I have no views of personal 
advantage in this matter — they have been long annihilated — 
But I will not permit Clara Mowbray to become the wife of a 
villain — I will watch over her with thoughts as spotless as those 
of her guardian angel. I have been the cause of all the evil 
she has sustained — 1 first persuaded her to quit the path of duty 
— I, of all men who live, am bound to protect her from the misery 
— from the guilt which must attach to her as this man’s wife. I 
will never believe that she wishes it — I will never believe that, 
in calm mind and sober reason, she can be brought to listen to 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


291 

such a guilty proposal. — But her mind — alas ! — is not of the 
firm texture it once could boast ; and your friend knows well 
how to press on the spring of every passion that can agitate and 
alarm her. Threats of exposure may extort her consent to this 
most unfitting match, if they do not indeed drive her to suicide, 
which I think the most likely termination. I wi^l^ therefore, 
be strong where she is weak. — Your friend, sir, must at least 
strip his proposals of their fine gilding. I will satisfy Mr. Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s of his false pretences, both to rank and 
fortune ; and I rather think he will protect his sister against 
the claim of a needy profligate, though he might be dazzled 
with the alliance of a wealthy peer.” 

“ Your cause, sir, is not 3 ’et won,” answered Jekyl ; ‘ and 
when it is, your brother will retain property enough to entitle 
him to marry a greater match than Miss Mowbray, besides the 
large estate of Nettlewood, to which that alliance must give him 
right. But I would wish to make some accommodation between 
you, if it were possible. You profess, Mr. Tyrrel, to lay aside 
all selfish wishes and views in this matter, and to look entirely 
to Miss Mowbray’s safety and happiness ? ” 

“ Such, upon my honor, is the exclusive purpose of my in- 
terference — I would give all I am worth to procure her an hour 
of quiet — for happiness she will never know again.” 

“ Your anticipations of Miss Mowbray’s distress,” answered 
Jekyl, “ are, I understand, founded upon the character of my 
friend. You think him a man of light principle, and because 
he overreached you in a juvenile intrigue, you conclude that 
now, in his more steady and advanced years, the happiness of 
the lady in whom you are so much interested ought not to be 
trusted to him 1 ” 

“ There may be other grounds,” said Tyrrel hastily; “ but 
you may argue upon those you have named, as sufficient to 
warrant my interference,” 

“ How, then, if I should propose some accommodation of 
this nature ? Lord Etherington does not pretend to the ardor 
of a passionate lover. He lives much in the world, and has no 
desire to quit it. Miss Mowbray’s health is delicate — her spirits 
variable — and retirement would most probably be her choice — 
Suppose — I am barely putting a supposition — suppose that a 
marriage between two persons so circumstanced were rendered 
neccessary or advantageous to both — suppose that such a mar- 
riage were to secure to one party a large estate — were to insure 
the other against all the consequences of an unpleasant exposure 
— still, both ends might be obtained by the mere ceremony of 
marriage passing between them. There might be a previous 


J^ONAN^S WELL. 


•S^yz 

contract of separation, with suitable provisions for the lady, and 
stipulations, by which the husband should renounce all claim 
to her society. Such things happen every season, if not on the 
very marriage-day, yet before the honeymoon is over. Wealth 
and freedom would be the lady’s, and as much rank as you, sir, 
supposing your claims just, may think proper to leave them.” 

There was a long pause, during which Tyrrel underwent 
many changes of countenance, which Jekyl watched carefully, 
without pressing him for an answer. At length he replied, 
“ There is much in your proposal, Captain Jekyl, which I might 
be tempted to accede to, as one manner of unloosing this Gordian 
knot, and a compromise by which Miss Mowbray’s future tran- 
quility would be in some degree provided for. But I would 
rather trust a fanged adder than your friend, unless I saw him 
fettered by the strongest ties of interest. Besides, I am certain 
the unhappy lady could never survive the being connected with 
him in this manner though but for the single moment when they 
should appear together at the altar. There are other objec- 
tions ” 

He checked himself, paused, and then proceeded in a calm 
and self-possessed tone. “ You think, perhaps, even yet, that 
I have some selfish and interested views in this business ; and 
probably you may feel yourself entitled to entertain the same 
suspicion toward me which I avowedly harbor respecting every 
proposition which originates with )^our friend. — I cannot help it 
— I can but meet these disadvantageous impressions with plain 
dealing and honesty ; and it is in the spirit of both that I make 
a proposition Xoyou. — Your friend is attached to rank, fortune, 
and worldly advantages, in the usual proportion, at least, in 
which they are pursued by men of the world — this you must 
admit, and I will not offend you by supposing more.” 

“ I know few people who do not desire such advantages,” 
answered Captain Jekyl, “ and I frankly own, that he affects 
no particular degree of philosophic indifference respecting 
them.” 

Be it so,” answered Tyrrel. “ Indeed, the proposal you 
have just made indicates that his pretended claim on this young 
lady’s hand is entirely, or almost entirely, dictated by motives 
of interest, since you are of opinion that he would be contented 
to separate from her society on the very marriage-day, provided 
that, in doing so, he was assured of the Nettlewood properly,” 

“ My proposition was unauthorized by my principal,” an- 
swered Jekyl , “but it is needless to deny, that its very tenor 
implies an idea, on my part, that Lord Etherington is no pas- 
sionate lover.” 


ST. KONAN*S WELL. 


293 


Well then,” answered Tyrrel. “ Consider, sir, and let 
him consider well, that the estate and rank he now assumes 
depend upon my will and pleasure — that if I prosecute the 
claims of which that scroll makes you aware, he must descend 
from the rank of an earl into that of a commoner, stripped of 
by much the better half of his fortune — a diminution which 
would be far from compensated by the estate of Nettlewood, 
even if he could obtain it, which could only be by means of a 
lawsuit, precarious in the issue, and most dishonorable in its 
very essence.” 

“Well, sir,” replied Jekyl, “ I perceive your argument — • 
What is your proposal t ” 

“That I will abstain from prosecuting my claim on those 
honors and that property — that I will leave Valentine Bulmer 
in possession of his usurped title and ill-deserved wealth — that 
I will bind myself under the strongest penalties never to dis- 
turb his possession of the Earldom of Etherington, and estates 
belonging to it — on condition that he allows the woman, whose 
peace of mind he has ruined forever, to walk through the world 
in her wretchedness, undisturbed either by his marriage-suit, or 
by any claim founded upon his own most treacherous conduct 
— in short, that he forbear to molest Clara Mowbray, either by 
his presence, word, letter, or through the intervention of a third 
party, and be to her in future as. if he did not exist.” 

“ This is a singular offer,” said the Captain ; “ may I ask if 
you are serious in making it ? ” 

“ I am neither surprised nor offended at the question,” said 
Tyrrel. “ I am a man, sir, like others, and affect no superiority 
to that which all men desire the possession of — a certain con- 
sideration and station in society. I am no romantic fool, to 
undervalue the sacrifice I am about to make. I renounce a 
rank, which is and ought to be the more valuable to me, be- 
cause it involves (he blushed as he spoke) the fame of an 
honored mother — because, in failing to claim it, I disobey the 
commands of a dying father, who wished that by doing so I 
should declare to the world the penitence which hurried him 
perhaps to the grave, and the making which public he con- 
sidered might be some atonement for his errors. From an 
honored place in the land, I descend voluntarily to become a 
nameless exile ; for, once certain that Clara Mowbray’s peace 
is assured, Britain no longer holds me. All this I do, sir, not 
in any idle strain of overheated feeling, but seeing, and know- 
ing, and dearly valuing, every advantage which I renounce — 
yet I do it, and do it willingly, rather than be the cause of 


294 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


further evil to one, on whom I have already brought too — too 
much.” 

His voice, in spite of his exertions, faltered as he concluded 
the sentence, and a big drop, which rose in his eye, required 
him for the moment to turn toward the window. 

“ I am ashamed of this childishness,” he said, turning again 
to Captain Jekyl ; “ if it excites your ridicule, sir, let it be at 
least a proof of my sincerity.” 

“ I am far from entertaining such sentiments,” said Jekyl, 
respectfully — for, in a long train of fashionable follies, his 
heart had not been utterly hardened — “ ven' far indeed. To 
a proposal so singular as yours, I cannot be expected to an- 
swer — except thus far — the character of the peerage is, I be- 
lieve, indelible, and cannot be resigned or assumed at pleasure. 
If you are really Earl of Etherington, I cannot see how your 
resigning the right may avail my friend.” 

“ You, sir, it might not avail,” said Tyrrel, gravely, “ because 
you, perhaps, might scorn to exercise a right, or hold a title, 
that was not legally yours. But your friend v.dll have no such 
compunctious visitings. If he can act the Earl to the eye of 
the world, he has already shown that his honor and conscience 
will be easily satisfied.” • ; 

“ May I take a copy of the memorandum containing this 
list of documents,” said Captain Jekyl, “for the infoimation of 
my constituent ? ” 

“ The paper is at your pleasure, sir,” replied Tyrrel ; “ it is 
itself but a copy. But, Captain Jekyl,” he added, with a sar- 
castic expression, “is, it would seem, but imperfectly let into 
his friend’s confidence — he may be assured his principal is com- 
pletely acquainted with the contents of this paper, and has accu- 
rate copies of the deeds to which it refers.” 

“ I think it scarce possible,” said Jekyl, angrily. 

“ Possible and certain ! ” answered 7'yrrel. “ My father, 
shortly proceeding his death, sent me — with a most affecting con- 
fession of his errors — this list of papers, and acquainted me 
that he had made a similar communication to your friend. That 
he did so I have no doubt, however Mr. Buhner may’^ have 
thought proper to disguise the circumstance in communication 
with you. One circumstance, among others, stamps at once 
his character, and confirms me of the danger he apprehended by 
my return to Britain. He found means, through a scoundrel- 
ly agent, who had made me the usual remittances from my 
father while alive, to withhold those which were necessary for 
my return from the Levant, and I was obliged to borrow from 
a friend.” 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


295 

“Indeed?” replied Jekyl. “It is the first time I have 
heard of these papers — May I inquire where the originals are, 
and in whose custody ? ” 

“ I was in the East,” answered Tyrrel, “ during my father’s 
last illness, and these papers were by him deposited with a 
respectable commercial house, with which he was connected. 
They were enclosed in a cover directed to me, and that again 
in an envelope, addressed to the principal person in their 
firm.” 

“ You must be sensible,” said Captain Jekyl, “ that I can 
scarcely decide on the extraordinary offer which you have been 
pleased to make, of resigning the claim founded on these 
documents, unless I had a previous opportunity of examining 
them.” 

“ You shall have that opportunity — I will write to have 
them sent down by the post — they lie but in small compass.” 

“ This, then,” said the Captain, “ sums up all that can be 
said at'present. Supposing these proofs to be of unexception- 
able authenticity, I certainly would advise my friend Ethering- 
ton to put to sleep a claim so important as yours, even at the 
expense of resigning his matrimonial speculation — I presume 
you design to abide by your offer ? ” 

“ I am not in the habit of altering my mind — still less of 
retracting my word,” said Tyrrel, somewTat haughtily. 

“We part friends, I hope?” said Jekyl, rising, and taking 
his leave. 

“ Not enemies, certainly, Captain Jekyl. I will own to you 
I owe you my thanks, for extricating me from that foolish affair 
at the Well — nothing could have put me to more inconvenience 
than the necessity of following to extremity a frivolous quarrel 
at the present moment.” 

“ You will come down among us, then ? ” said Jekyl. 

“ I certainly shall not wish to appear to hide myself,” 
answered Tyrrel ; “it is a circumstance might be turned against 
me — there is a party who will avail himself of every advan- 
tage. I have but one path, Captain Jekyl — that of truth and 
honor.” 

Captain Jekyl bowed, and took his leave. So soon as he 
was gone, Tyrrel locked the door of the apartment, and 
drawing from his bosom a portrait, gazed on it with a mixture 
of sorrow and tenderness, until the tears dropped from his 
eyes. 

It was the picture of Clara Mowbray, such as he had known 
her in the days of their youthful love, and taken by himself, 
whose early turn for painting had already developed itself. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


296 

The features of the blooming girl might be yet traced in the 
fine countenance of the more matured original. But what was 
now become of the glow which had shaded her cheek } — what 
of the arch, yet subdued pleasantry, which lurked in the eye ? 
— what of the joyous content, which composed every feature 
to the expression of an Euphrosyne "i — Alas ! these were long 
fled ! — Sorrow had laid his hand upon her — the purple light of 
youth was quenched — the glance of innocent gayety was 
exchanged for looks now moody with ill-concealed care, now 
animated by a spirit of reckless and satirical observation. 

“ What a wreck ! what a wreck ! ” exclaimed Tyrrel ; “ and 
all of one wretch’s making. — Can I put the last hand to the 
work, and be her murderer outright ? I cannot — I cannot ! 
I will be strong in the resolve I have formed — I will sacrifice 
all — rank — station — fortune — and fame. Revenge ! — Revenge 
itself, the last good left me — revenge itself I will sacrifice 
to obtain her such tranquility as she may be yet capable to 
enjoy.” 

In this resolution he sat down, and wrote a letter to the 
commercial house with whom the document of his birth, and 
other relative papers, were deposited, requesting that the packet 
containing them should be forwarded to him through the post- 
office. 

Tyrrel was neither unambitious, nor without those senti- 
ments respecting personal consideration, which are usually uni- 
ted with deep feeling and an ardent mind. It was with a 
trembling hand and a watery eye, but with a heart firmly re- 
solved, that he sealed and despatched the letter ; a step toward 
the resignation, in favor of his mortal enemy, of that rank and 
condition in life, which was his own by right of inheritance, but 
had so long hung in doubt betwixt them. 


CHAPTER THIRTIETH. 


INTRUSION. 


By my troth, I will go with thee 
burr — I shall stick. 


to the lane’s-end I — I am a kind of 
Measure for Measure. 


It was now far advanced in autumn. The dew lay thick on the 
long grass, where it was touched by the sun ; but where the 
sward lay in shadow, it was covered with hoar frost, and crisped 


ST. TONAN-^S WELL. 


297 

under Jekyl’s foot, as he returned through the woods of St. 
Ronan’s. The leaves of the ash tree detached themselves from 
the branches, and, without an air of wind, fell spontaneously on 
the path. The mists still lay lazily upon the heights, and the 
huge old tower of St. Ronan's was entirely shrouded with vapor, 
except where a sunbeam, struggling with the mist, penetrated 
into its wreath so far as to show a projecting turret upon one 
of the angles of the old fortress, which, long a favorite haunt 
of the raven, was popularly called the Corbie’s Tower. Beneath, 
the scene was open and lightsome, and the robin redbreast was 
chirping his best, to atone for the absence of all other choristers. 
The fine foliage of autumn was seen in many a glade, running 
up the sides of each little ravine, russet-hued and golden-specked, 
and tinged frequently with the red hues of the mountain-ash ; 
while here and there a huge old fir, the native growth of the 
soil, flung his broad shadow over the rest of the trees, and 
seemed^ to exult in the permanence of his dusky livery over 
the more showy but transitory brilliance by which he was 
surrounded. 

Such is the scene, which, so often described in prose and in 
poetry, yet seldom loses its effect upon the year or upon the eye, 
and through which we wander with a strain of mind congenial 
to the decline of the year. There are few who do not feel the 
impression ; and even Jekyl, though bred to far different pur- 
suits than those most favorable to such contemplation, relaxed 
his pace to admire the uncommon beauty of the landscape. 

Perhaps, also, he was in no hurry to rejoin the Earl of Ether- 
ington, toward whose service he felt himself more disinclined 
since his interview with Tyrrel. It was clear that that noble- 
man had not fully reposed in his friend the confidence promised ; 
he had not made him aware of the existence of those important 
documents of proof, on which the whole fate of his negotiation 
appeared now to hinge, and in so far had deceived him. Yet, 
when he pulled from his pocket and re-read Lord Etherington’s 
explanatory letter, Jekyl could not help being more sensible than 
he had been on the first perusal, how much the present possessor 
of that title felt alarmed at his brother’s claims ; and he had 
some compassion for the natural feeling that must have rendered 
him shy of communicating at once the very worst view of his 
case, even to his most confidential friend. Upon the whole, he 
remembered that Lord Etherington had been his benefactor to 
an unusual extent ; that, in return, he had promised the young 
nobleman his active and devoted assistance in extricating him 
from the difficulties with which he seemed at present surrounded ; 
that, in quality of his confident, he had become acquainted with 


398 ST. RONAN^S WELL. 

the most secret transactions of his life ; and that it could only be 
some very strong cause indeed, which could justify breaking off 
from him at this moment. Yet he could not help wishing either 
that his own obligations had been less, his friend’s cause better, 
or, at least, the friend himself more worthy of assistance. 

“ A beautiful morning, sir, for such a foggy, d — d climate as 
this,” said a voice close by Jekyl’s ear, which made him at once 
start out of his contemplation. He turned half round, and beside 
him stood our honest friend Touchwood, his throat muffled in 
his large Indian handkerchief, huge gouty shoes thrust upon his 
feet, his bob-wag well powfflered, and the gold-headed cane in 
his hand, carried upright as a sergeant’s halberd. One glance 
of contemptuous survey entitled Jekyl, according to his modish 
ideas, to rank the old gentleman as a regular-built quiz, and to 
treat him as the young gentleman of his Majesty’s Guards think 
themselves entitled to use every unfashionable variety of the 
human species. A slight inclination of a bow, and a very cold 
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” dropped as it were un- 
consciously from his tongue, were meant to repress the old gen- 
tleman’s advances, and moderate his ambition to be hail fellow 
well met with his betters. But Mr. Touchwood w^as callous to 
the intended rebuke ; he had lived too much at large upon the 
world, and w'as far too confident of his ow n merits, to take a 
repulse easily, or to permit his modesty to interfere wdth any 
purpose wfflich he had formed. 

“ Advantage of you, sir ? ” he replied ; “ I have lived too 
long in the w'orld not to keep all the advantages I have, and 
get all I can — and I reckon it one that I have overtaken you, 
and shall have the pleasure of your company to the Well.” 

“ I should but interrupt your w^orthier meditations, sir,” said 
the other ; “ besides, I am a modest young man, and think 
myself fit for no better company than my own — moreover, I 
walk slow — very slow^ — Good morning to you, Mr. A — A — I 
believe my treacherous memory has let slip your name, sir.” 

“ My name ! — Why, your memory must have been like Pat 
Murtough’s greyhound, that let the hare go before he caught it. 
You never heard my name in your life. Touchwood is my 
name. What d’ye think of it, now you know it ? ” 

“ I am really no connoisseur in surnames,” answ'ered Jekyl ; 
“ and it is quite the same to me whether you call yourself 
Touchwood or Touchstone. Don’t let me keep you from walk- 
ing on, sir. You wall find breakfast far advanced at the W'ell, 
sir, and your w'alk has probably given you an appetite.” 

“ Which will serve me to luncheon-time, I promise vou,” 
said Touchwood ; “ I always drink my coffee as soon as my feet 


S7\ /WKAA^^S WELL. 


299 

are in my pabouches — it’s the way all over the East. Never 
trust my breakfast to their scalding milk-and-water at the Well, 
I assure you ; and for walking slow, I have had a touch of the 
gout.” 

“ Have you } ” said Jekyl ; “ I am sorry for that ; because, 
if you have no mind to breakfast, I have — and so, Mr. Touch- 
stone, good-morrow to you.” 

But, although the young soldier went off at double quick 
time, his pertinacious attendant kept close by his side, display- 
ing an activity which seemed inconsistent with his make and 
his years, and talking away the whole time, so as to show that 
his lungs were not in the least degree incommoded by the 
unusual rapidity of motion. 

‘‘ Nay, young gentleman, if you are for a good smart walk, 
I am for you, and the gout may be d — d. You are a lucky 
fellow to have youth on your side ; but yet, so far as between 
the Aultoun and the Well, I think I could walk you for your 
sum, barring running — all heel and toe — equal weight, and I 
would match Barclay himself for a mile,” 

“ Upon my word, you are a gay old gentleman ! ” said Jekyl, 
relaxing his pace ; “ and if we must be fellow-travelers, though 
I can see no great occasion for it, I must ev^en shorten sail for 
you.” 

So saying, and as if another means of deliverance had 
occurred to him, he slackened his pace, took out a morocco case 
of cigars, and, lighting one with his briquet^ said, while he walked 
on, and bestowed as much of its fragrance as he could upon the 
face of his intrusive companion, “ Vergeben sie, mein Herr — 
ich bin erzogen in kaiserlicher Dienst — muss rauchen ein klein 
wenig.” * 

“ Rauchen sie immer fort,” said Touchwood, producing a 
huge meerschaum, which, suspended by a chain from his neck, 
lurked in the bosom of his coat, “ habe auch mein Pfeifchen — 
Sehen sie den lieben Topf ! ” t and he began to return the 
smoke, if not the fire, of his companion, in full volumes, and 
with interest. 

“ The devil take the twaddle,” said Jekyl to himself ; “ he 
is too old and too fat to be treated after the manner of Professor 
Jackson ; and, on my life, I cannot tell what to make of him. 
He is a residenter too — I must tip him the cold shoulder, or he 
will be pestering me eternally.” 

* Forgive me, sir, I was bred in the Imperial service, and must smoke 
a little. 

t Smoke as much as you please ; I have got my pipe too. — See what a 
beautiful head I 


300 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


Accordingly, he walked on, sucking his cigar, and apparently 
in as abstracted a mood as Mr. Cargill himself, without paying 
the least attention to Touchwood, who, nevertheless, continued 
talking, as if he had been addressing the most attentive listener 
in Scotland, whether it were the favorite nephew of a cross> 
old, rich bachelor, or the aide-de-camp of some old rusty firelock 
of a general, who tells stories of the American war. 

“ And so, sir, I can put up with any companion at a pinch, 
for I have traveled in all sort of ways, from a caravan down to 
a carrier’s cart ; but the best society is the best everywhere ; 
and I am happy I have fallen in with a gentleman who suits 
me so well as you. — That grave, steady attention of yours 
reminds me of Eifi Bey — you might talk to him in English, or 
anything he understood least of — you might have rea.d Aris- 
totle to Elfi, and not a muscle would he stir — give him his pipe, 
and he would sit on his cushion with a listening air, as if he 
took in every word of what you said.'* 

Captain Jekyl threw away the remnant of his cigar, with a 
little movement of pettishness, and began to whistle an opera 
air. 

“ There again, now ! — That is just so like the Marquis of 
Roccombole, another dear friend of mine, that whistles all the 
time you talk to him — He says he learnt it in the Reign of 
Terror, when a man was glad to whistle, to show his throat was 
whole. And, talking of great folk, what do you think of this 
affair between Lord Etherington and his brother, or cousin, as 
some folk call him ? ” 

Jekyl absolutely started at the question ; a degree of emo- 
tion, which, had it been witnessed by any of his fashionable 
friends, v^ould for ever have ruined his pretensions to rank in 
their first order. 

“ What affair 1 ” he asked, so soon as he could command a 
certain degree of composure. 

“ Why, you know the news surely ? Francis Tyrrel, whom 
all the company voted a coward the other day, turns out as 
brave a fellow as any of us ; for, instead of having run away to 
avoid having his own throat cut by Sir Bingo Binks, he was at 
the very moment engaged in a gallant attempt to murder his 
elder brother, or his more lawful brother, or his cousin, or some 
such near relation.” 

“I believe you are misinformed, sir,” said Jekyl, dryly, and 
then resumed, as deftly as he could, his proper character of a 
pococurante. 

“ I am told,” continued Touchwood, “one Jekyl acted as a 
second to them both on the occasion — a proper fellow, sir — one 


ST. TOjVAJV’S well. 


301 


of those fine gentlemen whom we pay for polishing the pave- 
ment in Bond Street, and looking at a thick shoe and a pair of 
worsted stockings, as if the wearer were none of their pay- 
masters. However, I believe the Commander-in-chief is like 
to discard him when he hears what has happened.” 

“ Sir !'■’ said Jekyl, fiercely — then, recollecting the folly of 
being angry with an original of his companion’s description, he 
proceeded more coolly, “ You are misinformed — Captain Jekyl 
knew nothing of any such matter as you refer to — you talk of a 

person you know nothing of — Captain Jekyl is ” (Here he 

stopped a little, scandalized, perhaps, at the very idea of vindi- 
cating himself to such a personage from such a charge.) 

“ Ay, ay,” said the traveler, filling up the chasm in his own 
way, “ he is not worth our talking of, certainly — but I believe 
he knew as much of the matter as either you or I do, for all 
that.” 

“ Sir, this is either a very great mistake, or wilful imperti- 
nence,” answered the officer. “ However absurd or intrusive 
you may be, I cannot allow you, either in ignorance or inciv- 
ility, to use the name of Captain Jekyl with disrespect. — I am 
Captain Jekyl, sir,” 

Very like, very like,” said Touchwood, with the most pro- 
voking indifference ; “ I guessed as much before.” 

“Then, sir, you may guess what is likely to follow, when a 
gentleman hears himself unwarrantably and unjustly slander- 
ed,” replied Captain Jekyl, surprised and provoked that his 
annunciation of name and rank seemed to be treated so light- 
ly. “ I advise you, sir, not to proceed too far upon the immu- 
nities of your age and insignificance.” 

“ I never presume further than I have good reason to think 
necessary. Captain Jekyl,” answered Touchwood, with great 
composure. “ I am too old, as you say, for any such idiotical 
business as a duel, which no nation I know of practices but 
our silly fools of Europe — and then, as for 3'our switch, which 
you are grasping with so much dignity, that is totally out of 
the question. Look you, young gentleman ; four-fifths of my 
life have been spent among men who do not set a man’s life at 
the value of a button on his collar — every person learns, in 
such cases, to protect himself as he can ; and whoever strikes 
me must stand to the consequences. I have always a brace of 
bull-dogs about me, which put age and youth on a level. So 
suppose me horse-whipped, and pray, at the same time, suppose 
yourself shot through the body. The same exertion of imagina- 
tion will serve for both purposes.” 


302 


ST. R0NAN’'S WELL. 


So saying, he exhibited a very handsome, highly-finished, 
and richly-mounted pair of pistols. 

“ Catch me without my tools,” said he, significantly button- 
ing his coat over the arms, which were concealed in a side- 
pocket, ingeniously contrived for that purpose. “ I see you do 
not know what to make of me,” he continued, in a familiar and 
confidential tone 3 “ but, to tell you the truth, everybody that 
has meddled in this St. Ronan’s business is a little off the 
hooks — something of a tete exaltee., in plain words, a little crazy, 
or so ; and I do not affect to be much wiser than other people.” 

“ Sir,” said Jekyl, “your manners and discourse are so un- 
precedented that I must ask your meaning plainly and decidedly 
— Do you mean to insult me, or no ^ ” 

“No insult at all, young gentleman — all fair meaning, and 
above board — I only wished to let you know what the world 
may say, that is all.” 

“Sir,” said Jekyl, hastily, “ the world may tell what lies it 
pleases ; but I was not present at the rencontre between Ether- 
ington and Mr. Tyrrel — I was some hundred miles off.” 

“ There now,” said Touchwood, “ there was a rencontre 
between them — the very thing I wanted to know.” 

“ Sir,” said Jekyl, aware too late that, in his haste to vindi- 
cate himself, he had committed his friend, “ I desire you will 
found nothing on an expression hastily used to vindicate myself 
from a false aspersion — I only meant to say, if there was an 
affair such as you talk of, I knew nothing of it.” 

“ Never mind — never mind— I shall make no bad use of 
what. I have learned,” said Touchwood. “Were you to eat 
your words with the best fish sauce (and that is Burgess’s), I 
have got all the information from them I wanted.” 

“You are strangely pertinacious, sir,” replied J^^yl. 

“ Oh, a rock, a piece of flint for that — What I have learned 
I have learned, but I will make no bad use of it — Hark ye. 
Captain, I have no malice against your friend — perhaps the 
contrary — but he is in a bad course, sir — has kept a false 
reckoning, for as deep as he thinks himelf ; and I tell you so, 
because I hold you (your finery out of the question) to be, as 
Hamlet says, indifferent honest; but, if you were not, why 
necessity is necessity ; and a man will take a Bedouin for his 
guide in the desert, whom he would not trust with an asper in 
the cultivated field ; so I think of reposing some confidence in 
you — have not made up my mind yet, though.” 

“On my word, sir, I am greatly flattered both by your 
intentions and your hesitation,” said Captain Jekyl. “ You 


ST. TOJ\rAJV*S WELL. 


303 


were pleased to say just now, that every one concerned with 
these matters was something particular.” 

“ Ay, ay — something crazy — a little mad, or so. That was 
what I said, and I can prove it.” 

“ I should be glad to hear the proof,” said Jekyl — ‘‘ I hope 
you do not except yourself.” 

“ Oh ! by no means,” answered Touchwood ; “ I am one of 
the maddest old boys ever slept out of straw, or went loose. 
But you can put fishing questions in your turn, Captain, I see 
that — you would fain know how much, or how little, I am in 
all these secrets. Well, that is as hereafter may be. In the 
meantime, here are my proofs. — Old Scrogie Mowbray was 
mad, to like the sound of Mowbray better than that of Scrogie ; 
young Scrogie was mad, not to like it as well. The old Earl 
of Etherington was not sane when he married a French wife 
in secret, and devilish mad indeed when he married an English 
one in public. Then, for the good folk here, Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s is cracked, when he wishes to give his sister to he 
knows not precisely whom ; she is a fool not to take him, 
because she does know who he is, and what has been between 
them ; and your friend is maddest of all, who seeks her under 
so heavy a penalty ; — and you and I, Captain, go mad gratis, 
for company’s sake, when we mix ourselves with such a mess 
of folly and frenzy.” 

“ Really, sir, all that you have said is an absolute riddle to 
me,” replied the embarrassed Jekyl. 

“ Riddles may be read,” said Touchwood, nodding ; “ if you 
have any desire to read mine, pray take notice, that this^eing 
our first interview, I have exerted myself faire les frais de la 
conversation., as Jack Frenchman says ; if you want another, 
you may come to Mrs. Dods’s at the Cleikum Inn, any day 
before Saturday, at four precisely, when you will find none of 
your half-starved, long-limbed bundles of bones, which you call 
poultry at the table-d’hote, but a right Chitty-gong fowl — I got 
Mrs. bods the breed from old Ben Vandewash, the Dutch 
broker — stewed to a minute, with rice and mushrooms. — If you 
can eat without a silver fork, and your appetite serves you, you 
shall be welcome — that’s all. — So, good morning to you, good 
master lieutenant, for a Captain of the Guards is but a lieuten- 
ant after all.” 

So saying, and ere Jekyl could make any answer, the old 
gentleman turned short off into a path which led to the heal- 
ing- fountain, branching away from that which conducted to 
the Hotel. 

Uncertain with whom he had been holding a conversation 


304 


ST, TONAN^S WELL. 


SO strange, Jekyl remained looking after him, until his atten- 
tion was roused by a little boy, who crept out from an ad- 
joining thicket, with a switch in his hand, which he had been 
just cutting, — probably against regulations to the contrary 
effect made and provided, for he held himself ready to take 
cover in the copse again, in case any one were in sight who 
might be interested in chastising his delinquency. Captain 
Jekyl easily recognized in him one of that hopeful class of imps 
who pick up a precarious livelihood about places of public 
resort, by going errands, brushing shoes, doing the groom’s 
and coachman’s work in the stables, driving donkeys, opening 
gates, and so forth, for but one-tenth part of their time, spend- 
ing the rest in gambling, sleeping in the sun, and otherwise 
qualifying themselves to exercise the profession of thieves and 
pickpockets, either separately, or in conjunction with those of 
waiters, grooms, and postilions. The little outcast had an 
indifferent pair of pantaloons, and about half a jacket, for like 
Pentapolin with the naked arm, he went on action with his 
right shoulder bare ; a third part of w'hat had once been a 
hat covered his hair, bleached white with the sun, and his face, 
as brown as a berry, was illuminated by a pair of eyes, which, 
for spying out either peril or profit, might have rivaled those 
of the hawk. — In a word, it was the original Puck of the Shaws 
dramaticals. 

“ Come hither, ye unhanged whelp,” said Jekyl, “ and tell 
me if you know the old gentleman that passed down the walk 
just now — yonder he is, still in sight.” 

“-^Jt is the Naboab,” said the boy ; “ I could swear to his 
back among all the backs at the Waal, your honor.” 

“ What do you call a Nabob, you varlet ? ” 

“A Naboab — a Naboab?” answered the scout; “odd, I 
believe it is ane comes frae foreign parts, with mair siller than 
his pouches can baud, and spills it a’ through the country — 
they are as yellow as orangers, and maun hae a’ thing their ain 
gate.” 

“And what is this Naboab’s name, as you call him ? ” de- 
manded Jekyl. 

“ His name is Touchwood,” said his informer, “ye may see 
him at the Waal every morning.” 

“ I have not seen him at the ordinary.” 

“Na, na,” answered the boy; “he’s" a queer auld cull, he 
disna frequent wi’ other folk, but lives upby at the Cleikum. — 
He gave me half-a-crown yince, and forbade me to play it awa’ 
at pitch and toss.” 

“And you disobeyed him, of course ? ” 


ST. RONAN'S. WELL. 


305 

“Na, I didna dis-obeyed him — I played it awa’ at neevie- 
neevie-nick-nack.” 

“ Well, there is sixpence for thee ; lose it to the devil in any 
way thou think’st proper.” 

So saying, he gave the little galopin his donative, and a 
slight rap on the pate at the same time, which sent him scour- 
ing from his presence. He himself hastened to Lord Ether- 
ington’s apartments, and, as luck would have it, found the 
Earl alone. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST. 

DISCUSSION. 

I will converse with iron-witted fools 
And unrespective boys — none are for me 
That look into me with suspicious eyes. 

Richard III. 

How now, Jekyl ! ” said Lord Etherington eagerly; “what 
news from the enemy } — Have you seen him } ” 

“ I have,” replied Jekyl. 

“ And in what humor did you find him ? — In none that was 
very favorable, I dare say, for you have a baffled and perplexed 
look, that confesses a losing game — I have often warned you 
how your hang-dog look betrays you at brag — And, then, when 
you would fain brush up your courage, and put a good face on 
a bad game, your bold looks always remind me of a standard 
hoisted only half-mast high, and betraying melancholy and de- 
jection, instead of triumph and defiance.” 

“ I only holding the cards for your lordship at present,” 
answered Jekyl ; “ and I wish to Heaven there may be no one 
looking over the hand.” 

“ How do you mean by that ? ” 

“ Why, I was beset on returning through the wood by an old 
bore, a Nabob, as they call him, and Touchwood by name.” 

“I have seen such a quiz about,” said Lord Etherington — ■ 
“ What of him ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered Jekyl ; “ except that he seemed to 
know much more of your affairs than you would wish or are 
aware of. He smoked the truth of the rencontre betwixt 
Tyrrel and you, and what is worse — I must needs confess the 
truth — he contrived to wring out of me a sort of confirmation 
of his suspicions.” 


3o6 


ST. ROMAN'S WELL. 


“ ’Slife ! wert thou mad ? ” said Lord Etherington, turning 
pale ; his is the very tongue to send the story through the 
whole country — Hal, you have undone me.” 

“ I hope not,” said Jekyl ; “ I trust in Heaven 1 have not ! 
— His knowledge is quite general — only that there was some 
scuffle between you — Do not look so dismayed about it, or I 
will e’en go back and cut his throat to secure his secrecy.” 

“ Cursed indiscretion ! ” answered the Earl — how could you 
let him fix on you at all ? ” 

“ I cannot tell,” said Jekyl — “ he has powers of boring 
beyond ten of the dullest of all possible doctors — stuck like a 
limpet to a rock — a perfect double of the Old Man of the Sea, 
whom I take to have been the greatest bore on record.” 

“ Could you not have turned him on his back like .a turtle, 
and left him there ? ” said Lord Etherington. 

“ And hnd an ounce of lead in my body for my pains ? No 
— no — we have already had footpad work enough — I promise 
you the old buck was armed, as if he meant to bing folks on 
the low toby.” * 

“ Well — well — but Martigny, or Tyrrel, as you call him — 
what says he ? ” 

“Why, Tyrrel, or Martigny, as your lordship calls him,” 
answered Jekyl, “ will by no means listen to your lordship’s 
proposition. He will not consent that Miss Mowbray’s happi- 
ness shall be placed in your lordship’s keeping ; nay, it did not 
meet his approbation a bit the more, when I hinted at the 
acknowledgment of the marriage, or the repetition of the 
ceremony, attended by an immediate separation, which I thought 
I might venture to propose.” 

“ And on what grounds does he refuse so reasonable an 
accommodation } ” said Lord Etherington — “ Does he still seek 
to marry the girl himself ? ” 

“ I believe he thinks the circumstances of the case render 
that impossible,” replied his confidant. 

“ What ? then he would play the dog in the manger — neither 
eat nor let eat ? — He shall find himself mistaken. She has used 
me like a dog, Jekyl, since I saw you; and, by Jove ! I will 
have her, that I may break her pride, and cut him to the liver 
with the agony of seeing it.” 

“ Nay, but hold — hold ! ” said Jekyl ; “ perhaps I have some- 
thing to say on his part that may be a better compromise than 
all you could have by teasing him. He is willing to purchase 
what he calls Miss Mowbray’s tranquility at the expense of his 


“ Rob as a footpad. 


ST. IWNAN'S WELL. 


307 

resignation of his cljfims to your father’s honors and estate ; 
and he surprised me very much, my lord, by showing me this 
list of documents, which, I am afraid, makes his success more 
th^n probable, if there really are such proofs in existence.” 
Xord Etherington took the paper, and seemed to read with 
much attention, while Jekyl proceeded — He has written to 
procure these evidences from the person with whom they are 
deposited.” 

We shall see what like they are when they arrive,” said 
Lord Etherington. — “They come by post, I suppose .? ” 

“ Yes ; and may be immediately expected,” said Jekyl. 

“ Well — he is my brother on one side of the house, at least,” 
said Lord Etherington , “ and I should not much like to have 
him lagged for forgery, which, I suppose, will be the end of his 
bolstering up an unsubstantial plea by fabricated documents — 
I should like to see these papers he talks of.” 

“ But, my lord,” replied Jekyl, “ Tyrrel’s allegation is, that 
you have seen them ; and that copies, at least, were made out 
for you, and are in your possession — such is his averment.” 

“ He lies,” answered Lord Etherington, “ so far as he pre- 
tends I know of such papers. I consider the whole story as 
froth — foam — fudge, or whatever is most unsubstantial. It will 
prove such when the papers appear, if indeed they ever will 
appear. The whole is a bully from beginning to end ; and I 
wonder at thee, Jekyl, for being so thirsty after syllabub, that 
you can swallow such whipt cream as that stuff amounts to. 
No, no — I know my advantage, and shall use it so as to make 
all their hearts bleed. As for these papers, I recollect now that 
my agent talked of copies of some manuscripts having been 
sent him, but the originals were not then forthcoming ; and I’ll 
bet the long odds that they never are — mere fabrications — If I 
thought otherwise, would I not tell you .? ” 

“Certainly, I hope you would, my lord,” said Jekyl ; “ for 
I see no chance of my being useful to you, unless I have the 
honor to enjoy your confidence.” 

“ You do — you do, my friend,” said Etherington, shaking him 
by the hand ; “ and since I must consider your present nego- 
tiation as failed, I must devise some other mode of settling 
with this mad and troublesome fellow.” 

“ No violence, my lord,” said Jekyl, once more and with 
much emphasis. 

“None — none — none, By Heaven! — Why, thou suspicious 
wretch, must I swear to quell your scruples t — :On the contrary, 
it shall not be my fault if we are not on decent terms.” 

“ It would be infinitely to the advantage of both your char- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


308 

acters if you could bring that to pass/’ asnswered Jekyl ; “ and 
if you are serious in wishing it, I will endeavor to prepare dyrrel. 
He comes to the Well or to the ordinary to-day, and it would be 
highly ridiculous to make a scene.” 

“True, true ; find him out, my dear Jekyl, and persuade mm 
how foolish it will be to bring our family quarrels our before 
strangers, and for their amusement. They shall see the two 
bears can meet without biting. — Go — go — I will follow you in- 
stantly — go, and remember you have my full and exclusive con- 
fidence. — Go, half-bred startling fool ! ” he continued, the in- 
stant Jekyl had left the room, “with just spirits enough to 
ensure your own ruin, by hurrying you into what you are not up 
to. — But he has character in the world — is brave — and one’ of 
those whose countenance gives a fair face to a doubtful business. 
He is my creature, too — I have bought and paid for him, and it 
would be idle extravagance not to make use of him — But as to 
confidence — no confidence, honest Hal, beyond that which can- 
not be avoided. If I wanted a confident, here comes a better 
than thou by half — Solmes has no scruples — he will always 
give me money’s worth of zeal and secrecy for money.” 

His lordship’s valet at this moment entered the apartment, 
a grave, civil-looking man, past the middle age, with a sallow 
complexion, a dark thoughtful eye, slow, and sparing of speech, 
and sedulously attentive to all the duties of his situation. 

“ Solmes,” said Lord Etherington, and then stopped short. 

“ My lord ” — There was a pause ; and when Lord Ethering- 
ton had again said, “ Solmes ! ” and his valet had answered, 
“Your lordship,” there was a second pause; until the Earl, as 
if recollecting himself, “ Oh ! I remember what I wished to say 
— it was about the course of post here. It was not very regular, 
I believe ? ” 

“ Regular enough, my lord, so far as concerns this place — . 
the people in the Aultoun do not get their letters in course.” 

“ And why not, Solmes ? ” said his lordship. 

* The old woman that keeps the little inn there, my lord, is 
on bad terms with the post-mistress — the one will not send for 
the letters and the other will not despatch them to the village ; 
so, betwixt them, they are sometimes lost, or mislaid, or re- 
turned to the General Post-office.” 

“ I wish that may not be the case of a packet which I expect 
in a few days — it should have been here already, or, pehaps, it 
may arrive in the beginning of the week — it is from that formal 
ass, Trueman the Quaker, who addresses me by my Ghristian 
and family name, Francis Tyrrel. He is like enough to mis- 
take the inn, too, and I should be sorry it fell into Monsieur 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


309 

Manigny’s hands — I suppose you know he is in that neighbor- 
hood ? — Look after its safety, Solmes — quietly, you understand ; 
because people might put odd constructions, as if I were want- 
ing a letter which was not my own.” 

“I understand perfectly, my lord,” said Solmes, without ex- 
hibiting the slightest change in his sallow countenance, though 
perfectly comprehending the nature of the service required. 

“ And here is a note will pay for postage,” said the fiarl, 
putting into his valet’s hand a bank-bill of considerable value ; 
“ and you may keep the balance for occasional expenses.” 

This was also fully understood ; and Solmes, too politic and 
cautious even to look intelligence, or acknowledge gratitude, 
made only a bow of acquiescence, put the note into his pocket- 
book, and assured his lordship that his commands should be 
punctually attended to. 

“ There goes the agent for my money, and for my purpose,’^ 
said Lord Etherington, exultingly ; “ no extorting of confidence, 
no demanding of explanation^^, no tearing off the veil with 
which a delicate manoeuvre gaze — all excuses are received as 
a7gent co77iptant^ provided only, that the best excuse of all, the 
argent C077ipta7it itself, come to recommend them. — Yet I will 
trust no one — I will out, like a skilful general, and reconnoitre 
in person.” 

With this resolution. Lord Etherington put on his surtout 
and cap, and sallying from his apartments, took the way to the 
bookseller’s shop, which also served as post-office and circulating 
library ; and being in the very centre of the parade (for so is 
termed the broad terrace-walk which leads from the inn to the 
Well), it formed a convenient lounging-place for newsmongers 
and idlers- of every description. 

The Earl’s appearance created, as usual, a sensation upon the 
public promenade ; but whether it was the suggestion of his 
own alarmed conscience, or that there was some real cause for 
the remark, he could not help thinking his reception was of a 
more doubtful character than usual. His fine figure and easy 
manners produced their usual effect, and all whom he spoke 
to received his attention as an honor ; but none offered, as 
usual, to unite themselves to him, or to induce him to join 
their party. He seemed to be looked on rather as an object 
of observation and attention, than as making one of the com- 
pany ; and to escape from a distant gaze, which became rather 
embarrassing, he turned into the little emporium of news and 
literature. 

He entered unobserved, just as Lady Penelope had finished 
reading some verses, and was commenting upon them with all 


310 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


the alacrity of a fe7n7ne savante, in possession of something which 
no one is to hear repeated oftener than once. 

“ Copy — no indeed ! ” these were the snatches which reached 
Lord Etherington’s ear, from the group of which her ladyship 
formed the centre — “honor bright — I must not betray poor 
Chatterly — besides, his lordship is my friend, and a person of 
rank, you know — so one would not — You have not got the 
book, Mr. Pott ? — you have not got Statius ? — you never have 
anything one longs to see.” 

“Y’ery sorry, my lady — quite out of copies at present — I 
expect some in my next monthly parcel.” 

“ Good lack, Mr. Pott, that is your never-failing answer,” 
said Lady Penelope ; “ I believe if I were to ask you for the 
last new edition of the Alkoran, you would tell me it was com- 
ing down in your next monthly parcel.” 

“Can’t say, my lady, really,” answered Mr. Pott ; “have 
not seen the work advertised yet ; but I have no doubt, if it is 
likely to take, there will be copies in my next monthly parcel.” 

“ Mr. Pott’s supplies are always in the panllo post futiu'UTTi 
tense,” said Mr. Chatterly, who was just entering the shop. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Chatterly, are you there ? ” said Lady Penelope ; 
“ I lay my death at your door — I cannot find this Thebaid, 
where Polynices and his brother ” 

“ Hush my lady ! — hush, for PJeaven’s sake ! ” said the 
poetical divine, and looked toward Lord Etherington. Lady 
Penelope took the hint, and was silent ; but she had said 
enough to call up the traveler Touchwood, who raised his 
head from the newspaper which he was studying, and without 
addressing his discourse to any one in particular, ejaculated, as 
if in scorn of Lady Penelope’s geography — 

“ Polynices ? — Polly Peachum. — There is no such place in 
the Thebais — the Thebais is in Egypt — the mummies come 
from the Thebais — I have been in the catacombs — caves very 
curious indeed — we were lapidated by the natives — pebbled to 
some purpose, I give you my word. My ianizary thrashed a 
whole village by way of retaliation.” 

While he was thus proceeding, Lord Etherington, as if in a 
listless mood, was looking at the letters which stood ranged cn 
the chimney-piece, and carrying on a languid dialogue with Mrs. 
Pott, whose person and manners were not ill adapted to her 
situation, for she was good-looking, and vastly fine and affected. 

“ Number of letters here which don’t seem to find owners, 
Mrs. Pott .? ” 

“ Great number, indeed, my lord — it is a great vexation, for 
we are obliged to return them to the post-office, and the postage 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


is charged against us if they are lost ; and how can one keep 
sight of them all ? ” 

“ Any love-letters among them, Mrs. Pott "i ” said his lord- 
ship, lowering his tone. 

“ Oh, fie ! my lord, how should I know ? ” answered Mrs. 
Pott, dropping her voice to the same cadence. 

“ Oh ! every one can tell a love-letter — that has ever re- 
ceived one, that is — one knows them without opening — they 
are always folded hurriedly and sealed carefully — and the 
direction manifests a kind of tremulous agitation, that marks 
the state of the writer’s nerves — that now,” — pointing with his 
switch to a letter upon the chimney-piece, that musth^ a love- 
letter.” 

“He, he, he!” giggled Mrs. Pott. “I beg pardon for 
laughing, my lord — but — he, he, he ! — that is a letter from 
one Bindloose, the banker boclv, to the old woman Luckie 
Dods, as they call her, at the change-house in the Aultoun.” 

“ Depend upon it, then, Mrs. Pott, that your neighbor, Mrs. 
Dods, has got a lover in Mr. Bindloose — unless the banker has 
been shaking hands with the palsy. Why do you not forward 
her letter .’-—you are very cruel to keep it in durance here.” 

“ Me forward ! ” answered Mrs. Pott ; “ the capernoity, old, 
girning alewife, may wait long enough or I forward it — She’ll 
not loose the letters that come to her by the King’s post, and 
she must go on troking wi’ the old carrier, as if there was no 
post-house in the neighborhood. But the solicitor will be 
about wi’ her one of these days.” 

“ Oh ! you are too cruel — you really should send the love- 
letter ; consider, the older she is, the poor soul has the less 
time to lose.” 

But this was a topic on which Mrs. Pott understood no jest- 
ing. She was well aware of our matron’s inveteracy against 
her and her establishment, and she resented it as a placeman 
resents the efforts of a radical. She answered, something 
sulkily, “that they that loosed letters should have letters; 
and neither Luckie Dods, nor any of her lodgers, should ever 
see the scrape of a pen from the St. Ronan’s office, that they 
did not call for and pay for.” 

It is probable that this declaration contained the essence 
of the information which Lord Etherington had designed to 
extract by his momentary flirtation with Mrs. Pott, for w'hich 
retreating as it were from this sore subject, she asked him, in a 
pretty mincing tone, to try his skill in pointing out another 
love-letter, he only answered, carelessly, “ that in order to do 
that he must write her one ; ” and leaving his confidential 


312 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


station by her little throne, he lounged through the narrow 
shop, bowed slightly to Lady Penelope as he passed, and issued 
forth upon the parade, where he saw a spectacle which might 
have appalled a man of less self-possession than himself. 

Just as he left the shop, little Miss Digges entered almost 
breathless, with the emotion of impatience and of curiosity. 
“Oh la ! my lady, what do you stay here for ? — Mr. Tyrrel has 
just entered the other end of the parade this moment, and 
Lord Etherington is walking that way — they must meet each 
other. — O Lord ! come, come away, and see them meet ! — I 
wonder if they’ll speak--I hope they won’t fight — Oh la! do 
come, my lady ! ” 

“ I must go with you, I find,” said Lady Penelope ; “ it is 
the strangest thing, my love, that curiosity of yours about othei 
folk’s matters — I wonder what your mamma will say to it.” 

“Oh! nevermind mamma — nobody minds her — papa,'noi 
nobody — Do come, dearest Lady Pen, or I will run away by 
myself. — Mr. Chatter!}', do make her come ! ” 

“I must come, it seems,” said Lady Penelope, “or 1 shall 
have a pretty account of you.” 

But, notwithstanding this rebuke, and forgetting, at the 
same time, that people of quality ought never to seem in a 
hurry. Lady Penelope, with such of her satelites as she could 
hastily collect around her, tripped along the parade with un- 
usual haste, in sympathy, doubtless, with Miss Digges’s curiosity, 
as her ladyship declared she had none of her own. 

Our friend, the traveler, had also caught up Miss Digges’s in- 
formation ; and, breaking off abruptly an account of the Great 
Pyramid, which had been naturally introduced by the mention 
of the Thebais, and echoing the fair alarmist’s words, “ hope 
they won’t fight,” he rushed upon the parade, and bustled along 
as hard as his sturdy supporters could carry him. If the gravity 
of the traveler, and the delicacy of Lady Penelope, were sur- 
prised into unwonted haste from their eagerness to witness the 
meeting of Tyrrel and Lord Etherington, it may be well sup- 
posed that the decorum of the rest of the company was a slender 
restraint on their curiosity, and that they hurried to be present 
at the expected scene, with the alacrity of gentlemen of the 
fancy hastening to a set-to. 

In truth, though the meeting afforded little sport to those 
who expected dire conclusions, it was, nevertheless, sufficiently 
interesting to those spectators who are accustomed to read the 
language of suppressed passion, betraying itself at the moment 
when the parties are most desirous to conceal it. 

Tyrrel had been followed by several loiterers so soon as he 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


313 

entered the public walk ; and their number was now so much 
reinforced that he saw himself with pain and displeasure the 
centre of a sort of crowd, who watched his motions. Sir Bingo 
and Captain MacTurk were the first to bustle through it, and to 
address him with as much politeness as they could command. 

“ Servant, sir,” mumbled Sir Bingo, extending the right 
hand of fellowship and reconciliation, ungloved. “ Servant — 
sorry that anything should have happened between us — very 
sorry, on my word.” 

“ No more need be said, sir,” replied Tyrrel ; “ the whole is 
forgotten.” 

“ Very handsome, indeed — quite the civil thing — hope to 
meet you often, sir.” — And here the knight was silent. 

Meanwhile the more verbose Captain proceeded, “ Och, py 
Cot, and it was an ahful mistake, and I could draw the pen- 
knife across my finger for having written the word. — By my 
sowl, and I scratched it till 1 scratched a hole in the paper. — 
Och ! that I should live to do an uncivil thing by a gentleman 
that had got himself hit in an honorable affair ! But you should 
have written, my dear; for how the devil could we guess that 
you were so well provided in quarrels, that you had to settle 
two in one day ^ ” 

“ 1 was hurt in an unexpected — an accidental manner. 
Captain MacTurk. I did not write, because there was some- 
thing in my circumstances at the moment which required 
secrecy ; but I was resolved, the instant I recovered, to put my- 
self to rights in your good opinion.” 

“ Och ! and you have done that,” said the Captain, nodding 
sagaciously ; “ for Captain Jekyl, who is a fine child, has put 
us all up to your honorable conduct. They* are pretty boys, 
these guardsmen, though they may play a little fine sometimes, 
and think more of themselves than peradventure they need for 
to do, in comparison with us of the line. — But he let us know 
all about it — and, though he said not a word of a certain fine 
lord, with his footpad and his hurt, and what not, yet we all 
knew how to lay that and that together. — And if the law would 
not light you, and there were bad words between you, why 
should not two gentlemen right themselves f And as to your 
being kinsmen, why should not kinsmen behave to each other 
like men of honor } Only, some say you are father’s sons, 
and that zs something too near. — I had once thoughts of call- 
ing out my uncle Dougal myself, for there is no saying where 
the line should be drawn ; but I thought, on the whole, there 
should be no fighting, as there is no marriage, within the for- 
bidden degrees. As for first cousins — Wheugh ! — that’s all 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


314 

fair — fire away, Flanigan ! — But here is my lord, just upon us, 
like a stag of the first head, and the whole herd behind him.” 

Tyrrel stepped forward a little before his officious com- 
panions, his complexion rapidly changing into various shades, 
like that of one who forces himself to approach and touch 
some animal or reptile for which he entertains that deep dis- 
gust and abhorrence which was anciently ascribed to constitu- 
tional antipathy. This appearance of constraint put upon him- 
self, with the changes which it produced on his face, was cal- 
culated to prejudice him somewhat in the opinion of the spec- 
tators, when compared with the steady, stately, yet, at the same 
time, easy demeanor of the Earl of Etherington, who was equal 
to any man in England in the difficult art of putting a good 
countenance on a bad cause. He met Tyrrel with an air as 
unembarrassed as it was cold ; and, while he paid the courtesy 
of a formal and distant salutation, he said aloud, “ I presume, 
Mr. Tyrrel de Martigny, that, since you have not thought fit 
to avoid this awkward meeting, you are disposed to remember 
our family connection so far as to avoid making sport for the 
good company .? ” 

“ You have nothing to apprehend from my passion, Mr. Bul- 
mer,” replied Tyrrel, “ if you can assure yourself against the 
consequences of your own.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said the Earl, with the same com- 
posure, but sinking his voice so as only to be heard by Tyrrel ; 
“ and, as we may not again in a hurry hold any communication 
together, I take the freedom to remind you, that I sent you a 
proposal of accommodation by my friend, Mr. Jekyl.” 

“ It was inadmissible,” said Tyrrel — “ altogether inadmis- 
sible — both from reasons which you may guess, and others 
which it is needless to detail. — I sent you a proposition, think 
of it well.” 

I will,” replied Lord Etherington, “ when I shall s^e it 
supported by those alleged proofs, which I do not believe ever 
had existence.” 

“Your conscience holds another language from your 
tongue,” said Tyrrel ; “ but I disclaim reproaches, and decline 
altercation. I will let Captain Jekyl know when I have re- 
ceived the papers, which, you say, are essential to your forming 
an opinion on my proposal. In the meanwhile, do not think 
to deceive me. I am here for the very purpose of watching 
and defeating your machinations ; and, while I live, be assured 
they shall never succeed. And now, sir — or my lord — for the 
titles are in your choice — fare you well.” 

“ Hold a little,” said Lord Etherington. “ Since we are 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


315 

condemned to shock each other’s eyes, it is fit the good company 
should know what they are to think of us. You are a philoso- 
pher, and do not value the opinion of the public — a poor world- 
ling like me is desirous to stand fair with it. Gentlemen,” he 
continued, raising his voice, “ Mr. Winterblossom, Captain 
MacTurk, Mr. — what is his name, Jekyl ? — Ay, Micklehen — 
You have, I believe, all some notion, that this gentleman, my 
near relation, and I, have some undecided claims on each 
other, which prevent our living upon good terms. We do not 
mean, however, to disturb you with our family quarrels ; and, 
for my own part, while this gentleman, Mr. Tyrrel, or whatever 
he may please to call himself, remains a member of this com- 
pany, my behavior to him will be the same as to any stranger 
who may have that advantage. — Good morrow to you, sir — 
Good morning, gentlemen — we all meet at dinner, as usual. — 
Come, Jekyl.” 

So saying, he took Jekyl by the arm, and, gently extricating 
himself from the sort of crowd, walked off, leaving most of the 
company prepossessed in his favor, by the ease and apparent 
reasonableness of his demeanor. Sounds of depreciation, 
forming themselves indistinctly into something like the words, 
“My eye, and Betty Martin,” did issue from the neckcloth of 
Sir Bingo, but they were not much attended to ; for it had not 
escaped the observation of the quicksighted gentry at the 
Well, that the Baronet’s feelings toward the noble Earl were 
in the inverse ratio of those displayed by Lady Binks, and that, 
though ashamed to testify, or perhaps incapable of feeling, any 
anxious degree of jealousy, his temper had been for some time 
considerably upon the fret ; a circumstance concerning which 
his fair moiety did not think it necessary to give herself any 
concern. 

Meanwhile the Earl of Etherington walked onward with his 
confidant, in the full triumph of successful genius. 

“You see,” he said, “Jekyl, that I can turn a corner with 
any man in England. It was a proper blunder of yours, that 
you must extricate the fellow from the mist which accident had 
flung around him — you might as well have published the story 
of our rencontre at once, for every one can guess it, by laying 
time, place, and circumstance together; but never trouble your 
brains for a justification. You marked how I assumed my 
natural superiority over him — towered up in the full pride of 
legitimacy — silenced him, even where the good company most 
do congregate. This will go to Mowbray through his agent, 
and will put him still madder on my alliance. I know he looks 
jealously on my flirtation with a certain lady — the dasher yon- 


ST. TOJVAJV’S WELL. 


316 

der — nothing makes a man sensible of the value of an oppor- 
tunity but the chance of losing it.” 

I wish to Heaven you would give up thoughts of Miss 
Mowbray ! ” said Jekyl ; “ and take Tyrrel’s offer, if he has the 
means of making it good.” 

“ Ay, if — if. But I am quite sure he has no such rights as 
he pretends to, and that his papers are all a deception. — Why 
do you put your eye upon me as fixed as if you were searching 
out some wonderful secret } ” 

“ I wish I knew what to think of your real bona fide belief 
respecting these documents,” said Jekyl, not a little puzzled by 
the steady and unembarrassed air of his friend. 

“ Why, thou most suspicious of coxcombs,” said Ethering- 
ton, “ what the devil would you have me to say to you ? — Can 
I, as the lawyers say, prove a negative ? or, is it not very pos- 
sible, that such things may exist, though I have never seen or 
heard of them? All I can say is, that of all men I am the 
most interested to deny the existence of such documents ; and, 
therefore, certainly will not admit of it, unless I am compelled 
to do so by their being produced ; nor then either, unless I am 
at the same time well assured of their authenticity.” 

“I cannot blame you for your being hard of faith, my lord,” 
said Jekyl ; “but still I think if you can cut out with your earl- 
dom, and your noble hereditary estate, I would, in your case, 
pitch Nettlewood to the devil.” 

“Yes, as you pitched your own patrimony, Jekyl ; but you 
took care to have the spending of it first. What would you 
give for such an opportunity of piecing your fortunes by mar- 
riage .? — Confess the truth.” 

“ I might be tempted, perhaps,” said Jekyl, “in my present 
circumstances; but if they were what they ha\^ been, I should 
despise an estate that was to be held by petticoat tenure, 
especially when the lady of the manor was a sickly fantastic 
girl, that hated me, as this Miss Mowbray has the bad taste to 
hate you.” 

“ Umph — sickly? — no, no, she is not sickly — she is as 
healthy as any one in constitution — and, on my word, I think 
her paleness only renders her more interesting. " The last time 
I saw her, I thought she might have rivaled one of Canova’s 
finest statues.” 

“ Yes ; but she is indifferent to you — you do not love her,” 
said Jekyl. 

“ She is anything but indifferent to me,” said the Earl ; 
“ she becomes daily more interesting — for her dislike piques 
me, and besides, she has the insolence openly to defy and coti- 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


317 

temn me before her brother, and in the eyes of all the world. 
I have a kind of loving hatred — a sort of hating love for her ; 
in short, thinking upon her is like trying to read a riddle, and 
makes one make quite as many blunders, and talk just as much 
nonsense. If ever I have the opportunity, I will make her pay 
for all her airs.” 

“ What airs 1 ” said Jekyl. 

“ Nay, the devil may describe them, for I cannot ; but, for 
example — Since her brother has insisted on her receiving me, 
or I should rather say on her appearing when I visit Shaws 
Castle, one would think her invention has toiled in discovering 
different ways of showing want of respect to me, and dislike to 
my presence. Instead of dressing herself as a lady should, 
especially on such occasions, she chooses some fantastic, or old- 
fashioned, or negligent bedizening, which makes her at least 
look odd, if it cannot make her ridiculous — such triple tiaras of 
various colored gauze on her head — such pieces of old tapestry, 
I think, instead of shawds and pelisses — such thick-soled shoes 
— such tan-leather gloves — mercy upon us, Hal, the very sight 
of her equipment would drive mad a whole conclave of milliners ! 
Then her postures are so strange — she does so stoop and lollop, 
as the women call it, so cross her legs and square her arms — 
were the goddess of grace to look down on her, it would put 
her to flight forever ! ” 

“ And you are willing to make this awkward, ill-dressed, 
unmannered dowdy, your Countess, Etherington ; you, for whose 
critical eye half the town dress themselves ? ” said Jekyl. 

“ It is all a trick, Hal — all an assumed character to get rid 
of me, to disgust me, to baffle me ; but I am not to be had so 
easily. The brother is driven to despair — he bites his nails, 
winks, coughs, makes signs, which she always takes up at cross- 
purpose. I hope he beats her after I go away; there would be 
a touch of consolation, were one but certain of that.” 

A very charitable hope, truly, and your present feelings 
might lead the lady to judge what she may expect after wed- 
lock. But,” added Jekyl, “cannot you, so skilful in fathoming 
every mood of the female mind, divine some mode of engaging 
her in conversation ? ” 

“ Conversation ! ” replied the Earl ; “ why, ever since _ the 
shock of my first appearance was surmounted, she has contrived 
to vote me a nonentity; and that she may annihilate me com- 
pletely, she has chosen, of all occupations, that of working 
a stocking ! From what cursed old antediluvian, who lived 
before the invention of spinning-jennies, she learned this craft, 
Heaven only knows ; but there she sits, with her work pinned 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


318 

to her knee — not the pretty taper silk fabric, with which 
Jeannette of Amiens coquetted while Tristram Shandy was 
observing her progress ; but a huge worsted bag, designed for 
some flat-footed old pauper, with heels like an elephant — And 
there she squats, counting all the stitches as she works, and 
refusing to speak, or listen, or look up, under pretence that it 
disturbs her calculation ! ” 

“ An elegant occupation, truly, and I wonder it does not 
work a cure upon her noble admirer,” said Jekyl. 

“ Confound her — no — she shall not trick me. And then, 
amid this affectation of vulgar stolidity, there break out such 
sparkles of exultation, when she thinks she has succeeded in 
baffling her brother, and in plaguing me, that, by my faith, 
Hal, I could not tell, were it at my option, whether to kiss or 
to cuff her.” 

“You are determined to go on with this strange affair, 
then ? ” said Jekyl. 

“ On — on— on, my boy ! — Clara and Nettlewood forever ! ” 
answered the Earl. “ Besides, this brother of hers provokes me 
too — he does not do for me half what he might — what he ought 
to do. He stands on point of honor, forsooth, this broken- 
down horse-jockey, who swallowed my two thousand pounds, as 
a pointer would a pat of butter. I can see he wishes to play 
fast and loose — has some suspicions, like you, Hal, upon the 
strength of my right to my father’s titles and estate, as if, with 
the tithe of the Nettlewood property alone, I would not be too 
good a match for one of his beggarly family. He must scheme, 
forsooth, this half-baked Scotch cake ! — He must hold off and 
on, and be cautious, and wait the result, and try conclusions 
with me, this lump of oatmeal dough ! — I am much tempted to 
make an example of him in the course of my proceedings.” 

“Why, this is vengeance horrible and dire,” said Jekyl; 
“yet I give up the brother to you ; he is a conceited coxcomb, 
and deserves a lesson. But I would fain intercede for the 
sister.” 

“ We shall see,” replied the Earl ; and then suddenly, “ I 
tell you what it is, Hal ; her caprices are so diverting, that I 
sometimes think out of mere contradiction, I almost love her ; 
at least, if she would but clear old scores, and forget one un- 
lucky prank of mine, it should be her own fault if I did not 
make her a happy woman.” 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


319 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND. 

A DEATH-BED. 

It comes — It wrings me in my parting hour, 

The long-hid crime — the well-disguised guilt. 

Bring me some holy priest to lay the spectre ! 

Old Play. 

The general expectation of the company had been disap- 
pointed by the pacific termination of the meeting betwixt the 
Earl of Etherington and Tyrrel, the anticipation of which had 
created so deep a sensation. It had been expected that some 
appalling scene would have taken place ; instead of which, 
each party seemed to acquiesce in a sullen neutrality, and 
leave the war to be carried on by their lawyers. It was gen- 
erally understood that the cause was removed out of the courts 
of Bellona into that of Themis ; and although the litigants 
continued to inhabit the same neighborhood, and once or twice 
met at the public walks or public table, they took no notice of 
each other, further than by exchanging on such occasions a 
grave and distant bow. 

In the course of two or three days people ceased to take 
interest in a feud so coldly conducted ; and if they thought of 
it at all, it was but to wonder that both the parties should 
persevere in residing near the Spa, and in chilling, with their 
unsocial behavior, a party met together for the purposes of 
health and amusement. 

But the brothers, as the reader is aware, however painful 
their occasional meetings might be, had the strongest reasons 
to remain in each other’s neighborhood — Lord Etherington to 
conduct his design upon Miss Mowbray, Tyrrel to disconcert 
his plan if possible, and both to await the answer which 
should be returned by the house in London, who were deposi- 
taries of the papers left by the late Earl. 

Jekyl, anxious to assist his friend as much as possible, made 
in the meantime a visit to old Touchwood at the Aultoun, 
expecting to find him as communicative as he had formerly 
been on the subject of the quarrel betwixt the brothers, and 
trusting to discover, by dint of address, whence he had derived 
his information concerning the affairs of the noble house of 
Etherington. But the confidence which he had been induced 
to expect on the part of the old traveler was not reposed. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


320 

Ferdinand Mendez Pinto, as the Earl called him, had changed 
his mind, or was not in the vein of communication. The only 
proof of his confidence worth mentioning, was his imparting 
to the young officer a valuable receipt for concocting curry- 
powder. 

Jekyl was therefore reduced to believe that Touchwood, who 
appeared all his life to be a great intermeddler in other people’s 
matters, had puzzled out the information which he appeared to 
possess of Lord Etherington’s affairs, through some of those 
obscure sources whence very important secrets do frequently, to 
the astonishment and confusion of those whom they concern, 
escape to the public. He thought this the more likely, as 
Touchwood was by no means critically nice in his society, but 
was observed to converse as readily with a gentleman’s gentle- 
man, as with the gentleman to whom he belonged, and with a 
lady’s attendant, as with the lady herself. He that will stoop 
to this sort of society, who is fond of tattle, being at the same 
time disposed to pay some consideration for gratification of his 
curiosity, and not over scrupulous respecting its accuracy, may 
always command a great quantity of private anecdote. Captain 
Jekyl naturally enough concluded, that this busy old man 
became in some degree master of other people’s affairs by such 
correspondences as these ; and he could himself bear witness to 
his success in cross-examination, as he had been surprised into 
an avowal of the rencontre between the brothers, by an insidious 
observation of the said Touchwood. He reported, therefore, to 
the Earl, after this interview, that, on the whole, he thought 
he had no reason to fear much on the subject of the traveler, 
who, though he had become acquainted, by some means or 
other, with some leading facts of his remarkable history, only 
possessed them in a broken, confused, and desultory manner, 
insomuch, that he seemed to doubt whether the parties in the 
expected lawsuit were brothers or cousins, and appeared totally 
ignorant of the facts on which it was to be founded. 

It was the next day after this e'daircissement on the subject 
of Touchwood, that Lord Etherington dropped as usual into the 
bookseller’s shop, got his papers, and skimming his eye over 
the shelf on which lay, till called for, the postponed letters, des- 
tined for the Aultoun, saw with a beating heart the smart post- 
mistress toss amongst them, with an air of sovereign contempt, 
a pretty large packet, addressed to Francis Tyrrel, Esq., etc. 
He withdrew his eyes, as if conscious that even to have looked 
on this important parcel might engender some suspicion of his 
purpose, or intimate the deep interest which he took in the con- 
tents of the missive which was so slightly treated by his friend 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


321 


Mrs. Pott. At this moment the door of the shop opened, and 
Lady Penelope Penfeather entered, with her eternal pendante, 
the little Miss Digges. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Mowbray ? — Has Mr. Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s been down this morning ? — Do you know anything of 
Mr. Mowbray, Mrs. Pott ” were questions which the lettered 
lady eagerly huddled on the back of each other, scarcely giving 
time to the lady of letters to return a decided negative to all 
and each of them. 

“ Mr. Mowbray was not about — was not coming there this 
morning — his servant had just called for letters and papers, 
and announced as much.” 

“ Good Heaven ! how unfortunate ! ” said Lady Penelope, 
with a deep sigh, and sinking down on one of the little sofas in 
an attitude of shocking desolation, which called the instant 
attention of Mr. Pott and his good woman, the first uncorking 
a small phial of salts, for he was a pharmacopolist as well as 
a vender of literature and transmitter of letters, and the other 
hastening for a glass of water. A strong temptation thrilled 
from Lord Etherington’s eyes to his finger-ends. Two steps 
might have brought him within arm’s-length of the unwatched 
packet, on the contents of which, in all probability, rested the 
hope and claims of his rival in honor and fortune; and, in the 
general confusion, was it impossible to possess himself of it un- 
observed ? But no — no — no — the attempt was too dreadfully 
dangerous to be risked ; and, passing from one extreme to 
another, he felt as if he was incurring suspicion by suffering 
Lady Penelope to play off her airs of affected distress and anx- 
iety, without seeming to take that interest in them which her 
rank at least might be supposed to demand. Stung with this 
apprehension, he hastened to express himself so anxiously on 
the subject, and to demonstrate so busily his wish to assist her 
ladvship, that he presently stood committed a great deal 
further than he had intended. Lady Penelope was infinitely 
obliged to his lordship — indeed, it was her character in gen- 
eral not to permit herself to be overcome by circumstances; 
but something had happened, so strange, so embarrassing, so 
melancholy, fhat she owned it had quite overcome her — not- 
withstanding she had at all times piqued herself on supporting 
her own distresses, better than she was able to suppress her 
emotions in viewing those of others. 

“ Could he be of any use .? ” Lord Etherington asked. “ She 
had inquired for Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s— his servant was 
at her ladyship’s service, if she chose to send to command his 
attendance.” 


322 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


“ Oh ! no, no ! ” said Lady Penelope ; “ I dare say, my dear 
lord, you will answer the purpose a great deal better that Mr 
Mowbray — that is, provided you are a Justice of Peace.” 

“ A Justice of Peace ! ” said Lord Etherington, much sur- 
prised ; “ I am in the commission unquestionably, but not for 
any Scotch county.” 

“ Oh, that does not signify,” said Lady Penelope ; “ and if 
you will trust yourself with me a little w'ay, I will explain to 
you how you can do one of the most charitable, and kind, and 
generous things in the world.” 

Lord Etherington’s delight in the exercise of charity, kind- 
ness, and generosity, was not so exuberant as to prevent his 
devising some means for evading Lady Penelope’s request, 
when, looking through the sash-door, he had a distant glance of 
his servant Solmes approaching the Post-office. 

I have heard of a sheep-stealer who had rendered his dog so 
skilful an accomplice in his nefarious traffic, that he used to send 
him out to commit acts of felony by himself, and had even con- 
trived to impress on the poor cur the caution that he should not, 
on such occasions, seem even to recognize his master, if they 
met accidentally.* Apparently, Lord Etherington conducted 
himself upon a similar principle ; for he had no sooner a glimpse 
of his agent, than he seemed to feel the necessity of leaving the 
stage free for his machinations. 

“ My servant,” he said, with as much indifference as he could 
assume, “ will call for my letters — I must attend Lady Pen- 
elope ; ” and instantly proffering his services as Justice of the 
Peace, or in whatever other quality she chose to employ them, 
he hastily presented his arm, and scarce gave her ladyship time 
to recover from her state of languor to the necessary degree of 
activity, ere he hurried her from the shop ; and, with her thin 
hatchet-face chattering close to his ear, her yellow and scarlet 
feathers crossing his nose, her lean right honorable arm hooking 
his elbow, he braved the suppressed titters and sneers of all the 
younger women whom he met as they traversed the parade. 
One glance of intelligence, though shot at a distance, passed 
betwixt his lordship and Solmes, as the former left the public 
walk under the guidance of Lady Penelope, his limbs indeed 
obeying her pleasure, and his ears dinned with her attempts to 
explain the business in question, but his mind totally indifferent 
where he was going, or ignorant on what purpose, and exclusively 
occupied with the packet in Mrs. Pott’s heap of postponed 
letters, and its probable fate. 


* Note F. Canine dexterity. 


ST, RONAN'S IVELL. 


323 


At length, an effort of recollection made Lord Etherington 
sensible that his abstraction must seem strange, and, as his 
conscience told him, even suspicious, in the eyes of his com- 
panion ; putting, therefore, the necessary degree of constraint 
upon himself, he expressed, for the first time, curiosity to know 
where their walk was to terminate. It chanced, that this was 
precisely the question which he needed not to have asked, if he 
had paid but the slightest attention to the very voluble com- 
munications of her ladyship, which had all turned upon this 
subject. 

“ Now, my dear lord,” she said, “ I must believe you lords 
of the creation think us poor simple women the vainest fools 
alive. I hav^e told you how much pain it costs me to speak 
about my little charities, and yet you come to make me tell 
you the whole story over again. But I hope, after all, your 
lordship is not surprised at what I have thought it my duty 
to do in this sad affair — perhaps I have listened too much to 
the dictates of my own heart, which are apt to be so deceitful.” 

On the watch to get at something explanatory, yet afraid, by 
demanding it directly, to show that the previous tide of narrative 
and pathos had been lost on an inattentive ear. Lord Ethering- 
ton could only say, that Lady Penelope could not err in acting 
according to the dictates of her own judgment. 

Still the compliment had not sauce enough for the lady’s 
sated palate ; so, like a true glutton of praise, she began to help 
herself with the soup-ladle. 

“ Ah ! judgment ! — how is it you men know us so little that 
you think we can pause to weigh sentiment in the balance of 
judgment ? — that is expecting rather too much from us poor 
victims of our feelings. So that you must really hold me excused 
if I forgot the errors of this guilty and unhappy creature, when 
I looked upon her wretchedness — Not that I would have my 
little friend, Miss Digges, or your lordship, suppose that I am 
capable of palliating the fault, while I pity the poor miserable 
sinner. Oh, no — Walpole’s verses express beautifully what one 
ought to feel on such occasions — 

‘ For never was the gentle breast 
Insensible to human woes ; 

Feeling, though firm, it melts distress’d 
For weaknesses it never knows.’ ” 

“ Most accursed of all precieuses,'" thought his lordship, 
“ when wilt thou, afmidst all thy chatter, utter one word sounding 
like sense or information ? ” 

But Lady Penelope went on — “ If you knew, my lord, how I 


ST. SONANTS WELL. 


324 

lament my limited means on those occasions ! But I have 
gathered something among the good people at the Well. I asked 
that selfish wretch, Winterblossom, to walk down with me to 
view her distress, and the heartless beast told me he was afraid 
of infection ! — infection from a puer — puerperal fever ! I should 
not perhaps pronounce the word, but science is of no sex — how- 
ever, I have always used thieves’ vinegar essence, and never have 
gone further than the threshold.” 

Whatever were Etherington’s faults, he did not want charity, 
so far as it consists in giving alms. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, taking out his purse, “ your ladyship 
should not have applied to me.” 

“ Pardon me, my lord, we only beg from our friends ; and 
your lordship is so constantly engaged with Lady Binks, that 
we have rarely the pleasure of seeing you in what I call my 
little circle.” 

Lord Eiherington, without further answer, tendered a couple 
of guineas, and observed, that the poor woman should have 
medical attendance. 

“ Why, so I say,” answered Lady Penelope ; “ and I asked 
the brute, Quackleben, who, I am sure, owes me some gratitude, 
to go and see her ; but the sordid monster answered, ‘ Who 
was to pay him ’ — He grows every day more intolerable, now 
that he seems sure of marrying that fat blowzy widow. He 
could not, I am sure, expect that I — out of my pittance — And 
besides, my lord, is there not a law that the parish, or the 
county, or the something or other, shall pay for physicking the 
poor } ” 

“ We will find means to secure the Doctor’s attendance,” 
said Lord Etherington ; ‘‘ and I believe my best way will be to 
walk back to the Well, and send him to wait on the patient. 
I am afraid I can be of little use to a poor woman in a child- 
bed fever.” 

“ Puerperal, my lord, puerperal,” said Lady Penelope, in a 
tone of correction. 

“Ill a puerperal fever, then,” said Lord Etherington ; “ why, 
what can I do to help her ? ” 

“Oh ! iny lord, you have forgotten that this Anne Heggie, 
that I told you of, came here with one child in her arms — and 
another — in short, about to become a mother again — and settled 
herself in this miserable hut that I told you of — and some peo- 
ple think the minister should have sent her to her own parish ; 
but he is a strange, soft-headed, sleepy sort of man, not over 
active in his parochial duties. However, there she settled, and 
there was something about her quite beyond the style of a com- 


ST. KONAN'S WELL, 


325 

mon pauper, my lord — not at all the disgusting sort of person 
that you give a sixpence to while you look another way — but 
some one that seemed to have seen better days — one that, as 
Shakespeare says, could a tale unfold— though, indeed, I have 
never thoroughly learned her history— only, that to-day, as I 
called to know how she was, and sent my maid into her hut with 
some trifle, not worth mentioning, I find there is something 
hangs about her mind concerning the Mowbray family here of 
St. Ronan’s — and my woman says the poor creature is dying, 
and is raving either for Mr. Mowbray or for some magistrate to 
receive a declaration ; and so I have given you the trouble to 
come with me, that we may get out of the poor creature, if 
possible, whatever she has got to say. — I hope it is not murder 
— 1 hope not — though young St. Ronan’s has been a strange, 
wild, daring, thoughtless creature — sgherro msigjie, as the 
Italian says. — But here is the hut, my lord — pray, walk in.” 

The mention of St. Ronan’s family, and of a secret relating 
to them, banished the thoughts which Lord Etherington began 
to entertain of leaving Lady Penelope to execute her works of 
devoted charity without his assistance. It was now with an 
interest equal to her own, that he stood before a most miserable 
hut, where the unfortunate female, her distresses not greatly 
relieved by Lady Penelope’s ostentatious bounty, had resided 
both previous to her confinement, and since that event had 
taken place, with an old woman, one of the parish poor, whose 
miserable dole the minister had augmented, that she might have 
some means of assisting the stranger. 

Lady Penelope lifted the latch and entered, after a momen- 
tary hesitation, which proceeded from a struggle betwixt her 
fear of infection, and her eager curiosity to know something, she 
could not guess what, that might affect the Mowbrays in their 
honor or fortunes. The latter soon prevailed, and she entered, 
followed by Lord Etherington. The lady, like other comforters 
of the cabins of the poor, proceeded to rebuke the grumbling old 
woman, for want of order and cleanliness — censured the food 
which was provided for the patient, and inquired particularly 
after the wine which she had left to make caudle with. The 
crone was not so dazzled with Lady Penelope’s dignity or bounty 
as to endure her reprimand with patience. “ They that had 
their bread to won wi’ ae arm,” she said, for the other hung 
powerless by her side, “had mair to do than to soop houses *, 
if her leddyship wad let her ain idle quean of a lass take the 
besom, she might make the house as clean as she liked ; and 
madam wad be a’ the better of the exercise, and wadhae done, 
at least, ae turn of wark at the week’s end.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


326 


“ Do you hear the old hag, my lord ? ” said Lady Penelope. 
“ Well, the poor are horrid ungrateful wretches. — And the wine, 
dame — the wine ? ” 

“The wine ! — there was hardly half-a-mutchkin, and puir, 
thin, fushionless skink it was — the wine was drunk out, ye may 
swear — we didna fling it ower our shouther — if ever we were to 
get good o’t, it was by taking it naked, and no wi’ your sugar 
and your slaisters — I wish, for ane, I had ne’er kend the sour 
smack o’t. If the bedral hadna gien me a drap of usquebaugh, 
I might e’en hae died of your leddyship’s liquor, for ” 

Lord Etherington here interrupted the grumbling crone, 
thrusting some silver into her grasp, and at the same time beg- 
ging her to be silent. The hag weighed the crown-piece in her 
hand, and crawled to her chimney-corner, muttering as she 
went, — “ This is something like — this is something like — no 
like rinning into the house and out of the house, and geeing 
orders, like mistress and mair, and then a puir shilling again 
Saturday at e’en.” 

So saying, she sat down to her wheel, and seized, while she 
spun, her jet-black cutty pipe, from which she soon sent such 
clouds of vile mundungus vapor as must have cleared the 
premises of Lady Penelope, had she not been strong in pur- 
pose to share the expected confession of the invalid. As for 
Miss Digges, she coughed, sneezed, retched, and finally ran 
out of the cottage, declaring she could not live in such a smoke, 
if it were to hear twenty sick w^omen’s last speeches ; and that, 
besides, she was sure to know all about it from Lady Penelope, 
if it was ever so little worth telling over again. 

Lord Etherington was now standing beside the miserable 
flockbed, in which lay the poor patient, distracted, in what 
seemed to be her dying moments, with the peevish clamor of 
the elder infant, to which she could only reply by low moans, 
turning her looks as well as she could from its ceaseless whine, 
to the other side of her wretched couch, where lay the unlucky 
creature to which she had last given birth ; its shivering limbs 
imperfectly covered with a blanket, its little features already 
swollen and bloated, and its eyes scarce open, apparently in- 
sensible to the evils of a state from w'hich it seemed about to 
be speedily released. 

“ You are very ill, poor woman,” said Lord Etherington ; 
“ I am told you desire a magistrate.” 

“ It was Mr. Mow'bray of St. Ronan’s whom I desired to see 
— John Mowbray of St. Ronan’s — the lady promised to bring: 
him here.” 

“ I am not Mowbray of St. Ronan’s,” said Lord Ethering- 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


327 

ton ; but I am a justice of peace, and a member of the legis- 
lature — I am, moreover, Mr. Mowbray’s particular friend, if I 
can be of use to you in any of these capacities.” 

The poor woman remained long silent, and when she spoke 
it was doubtfully. 

“ Is my Lady Penelope Penfeather there } ” she said, strain- 
ing her darkened eyes. 

“ Her ladyship is present, and within hearing,” said Lord 
Etherington. 

“ My case is the worse,” answered the dying woman, for so 
she seemed, “if I must communicate such a secret as mine to 
a man of whom I know nothing, and a woman of whom I only 
know that she wants discretion.” 

“ I — I want discretion ! ” said Lady Penelope ; but at a 
signal from Lord Etherington she seemed to restrain herself ; 
nor did the sick woman, whose powers of observation were 
greatly impaired, seem to be aware of the interruption. She 
spoke, notwithstanding her situation, with an intelligible and 
even emphatic voice ; her manner in a great measure betray- 
ing the influence of the fever, and her tone and language seem- 
ing much superior to her most miserable condition. 

“ I am not the abject creature which I seem,” she said ; 
“ at least, I was not born to be so. I wish I were that utter 
abject ! I wish I were a wretched pauper of the lowest class — 
a starving vagabond — a wifeless mother — ignorance and in- 
sensibility would make me bear my lot like the outcast animal 
that dies patiently on the side of the common, where it has 
been half-starved during its life. But I — but I — born and 
bred to better things, have not lost the memory of them, and 
they make my present condition — my shame — my poverty — my 
infamy — the sight of my dying babes — the sense that my own 
death is coming fast on — thev make these things a foretaste of 
hell ! ” 

Lady Penelope’s self-conceit and affectation were broken 
down by this fearful exordium. She sobbed, shuddered, and 
for once perhaps in her life, felt the real, not the assumed, 
necessity of putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Lord 
Etherington also was moved. 

“Good woman,” he said, “ as far as relieving your personal 
wants can mitigate your distress, I will see that is fully per- 
formed, and that your poor children are attended to.” 

“ May God bless you ! ” said the poor woman, with a glance 
at the wretched forms beside her ; “ and may you,” she added, 
after a momentary pause, “deserve the blessing of God, for it 
is bestowed in vain on those who are unworthy of it.” 


Sr. RONAN^S WELL. 


328 

Lord Etherington felt, perhaps, a twinge of conscience ; for 
he said, something hastily, “ Pray go on, good woman, if you 
really have anything to communicate to me as a magistrate — 
it is time your condition was somewhat mended, and I will 
cause you to be cared for directly.” 

“Stop yet a moment,” she said ; “let me unload my con- 
science before I go hence, for no earthly relief will long avail 
to prolong my time here. — I was well born, the more my present 
shame ! well educated, the greater my present guilt ! — I was 
always, indeed, poor, but I felt not of the ills of poverty. I 
only thought of it when my vanity demanded idle and expensive 
gratification, for real wants I knew none. I was companion of 
a young lady of higher rank than my own, my relative, how- 
ever, and one of such exquisite kindness of disposition, that 
she treated me as a sister, and would have shared with me all 

that she had on earth 1 scarce think I can go further with 

my story ! something rises to my throat when I recollect how I 
rewarded her sisterly love ! — I was elder than Clara — I should 
have directed her reading, and confirmed her understanding ; 
but my own bent led me to peruse only works, which, though 
they burlesque nature, are seductive to the imagination. We 
read these follies together, until we had fashioned out for our- 
selves a little world of romance, and prepared ourselves for a 
maze of adventures. Clara’s imaginations were as pure as 
those of angels; mine were — but it is unnecessary to tell them. 
The fiend, always watchful, presented a tempter at the moment 
when it was most dangerous.” 

She paused here, as if she found difficulty in expressing her- 
self; and Lord Etherington, turning, with great appearance of 
interest, to Lady Penelope, began to inquire, “ Whether it were 
quite agreeable to her ladyship to remain any longer an ear- 
witness of this unfortunate confession ? — it seems to be verging 
on some things — things that it might be unpleasant for your 
ladyship to hear.” 

“ I was just forming the same opinion, my lord, and, to say 
truth, was about to propose to your lordship to withdraw, and 
leave me alone with the poor woman. My sex will make her 
necessary communications the more frank in your lordship’s 
absence.” 

“ True, madam ; but then I am called here in my capacity 
of a magistrate.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Lady Penelope ; “ she speaks.” 

“ They say that every woman that yields, makes herself a 
slave to her seducer; but I sold my liberty not to a man, but a 
demon ! He made me serve him in his vile schemes against 


ST. RONANKS WELL. 


329 


my friend and patroness — and oh ! he found in me an agent 
too willing, from mere envy, to destroy the virtue which I had 
lost myself. Do not listen to me any more — Go, and leave me 
to my fate ; I am the most detestable wretch that ever lived — 
detestable to myself worst of all, because even in my penitence 
there is a secret whisper that tells me, that were I as I have 
been, I would again act over all the wickedness I have done, 
and much worse. Oh ! for Heaven’s assistance, to crush the 
wicked thought ! ” 

She closed her eyes, folded her emaciated hands, and held 
them upward in the attitude of one who prays internally ; 
presently the hands separated, and fell gently down on her 
miserable couch ; but her eyes did not open, nor was there the 
slightest sign of motion on the features. Lady Penelope 
shrieked faintly, hid her eyes, and hurried back from the bed, 
while Lord Etherington, his looks darkening with a complica- 
tion of feelings, remained gazing on the poor woman, as if 
eager to discern whether the spark of life was totally extinct. 
Her grim old assistant hurried to the bedside, with some spirits' 
in a broken glass. 

“ Have ye no had pennyworths for your charity ? ” she said, 
in spiteful scorn. Ye buy the very life o’ us wi’ your shillings 
and sixpences, your groats and your boddles — ye hae garr’d 
the puir wretch speak till she swarfs, and now ye stand as if ye 
never saw a woman in a dwam before. Let me till her wi’ the 
dram — mony words mickle drought, ye ken — Stand out o’ my 
gate, my leddy, if sae be that ye are a leddy , there is little use 
of the like of you when there is death in the pot.” 

Lady Penelope, half affronted, but still more frightened by 
the manners of the old hag, now gladly embraced Lord Ether- 
ington’s renewed offer to escort her from the hut. He left it 
not, however, without bestowing an additional gratuity on the 
old woman, who received it with a whining benediction. 

“ The Almighty guide your course through the troubles of 
this wicked warld — and the muckle deevil blaw wind in your 
sails,” she added, in her natural tone, as the guests vanished 
from her miserable threshold — “ A wheen cork-headed, barmy- 
brained gowks ! that wunna let puir folk sae muckle as die in 
quiet, wi’ their sossings and their soopings.” * 

“ This poor creature’s declaration,” said Lord Etherington to 
Lady Penelope, “ seems to refer to matters which the law has 
nothing to do with, and which, perhaps, as they seem to im- 
plicate the peace of a family of respectability, and the charac- 
ter of a young lady, we ought to inquire no further after.” 

* Note G. Parochial charity. 


330 


57: ROA^AN^S IV£LL. 


“ I differ from your lordship,” said Lady renelope ; “ I 
differ extremely — I suppose you guess whom her discourse 
touched upon ? ” 

“ Indeed, your ladyship does my acuteness by far too much 
honor.” 

“ Did she not mention a Christian name } ” said Lady 
Penelope ; “ your lordship is strangely dull this morning } ” 

“ A Christian name ? — No, none that I heard — yes, she said 
something about — a Catherine, I think it was.” 

“ Catherine ? ” answered the lady ; “ no, my lord, it was 
Clara — rather a rare name in this country, and belonging, I 
think, to a young lady of whom your lordship should know 
something, unless your evening flirtations with Lady Binks have 
blotted entirely out of your memory your morning visits to 
Shaws Castle. You are a bold man, my lord. I would advise 
you to include Mrs. Blower among the objects of your atten- 
tion, and then you will have maid, wife, and widow upon your 
Hst.” 

“ Upon my honor, your ladyship is too severe,” said Lord 
Etherington ; “ you surround yourself every evening with all 
that is clever and accomplished among the people here, and 
then you ridicule a poor secluded monster, who dare not ap- 
proach your charmed circle, because he seeks for some amuse- 
ment elsewhere. This is to tyrannize and not to reign — it is 
Turkish despotism ! ” 

“ Ah ! my lord, I know you well, my lord,” said Lady 
Penelope — “ Sorry would your lordship be, had you not power 
to render yourself welcome to any circle which you may 
please to approach.” 

“ That is to say,” answered the lord, “ you will pardon me 
if I intrude on your ladyship’s coterie this evening } ” 

“ There is no society which Lord Etherington can think of 
frequenting, where he will not be a welcome guest.” 

“ 1 will plead, then, at once my pardon and privilege this 
evening — And now ” (speaking as if he had succeeded in 
establishing some confidence with her ladyship), “ what do you 
really think of this blind story .? ” 

“ Oh, I must believe it concerns Miss Mowbray. She was 
always an odd girl — something about her I could never endure 
— a sort of effrontery — that is, perhaps, a harsh word, but a 
kind of assurance — an air of confidence — so that, though I kept 
on a footing with her because she was an orphan girl of good 
family, and because I really knew nothing positively bad of her, 
yet she sometimes absolutely shocked me.” 

“ Your ladyship, perhaps, would not think it right to give 


ST. KONAN’S WELL. 


33 i 

publicity to the story ? at least till you know exactly what it 
is,” said the Earl, in a tone of suggestion. 

“ Depend upon it, that it is quite the worst, the very worst 
— You heard the woman say that she had exposed Clara to 
ruin — and you know she must have meant Clara Mowbray, 
because she was so anxious to tell the story to her brother, SU 
Ronan’s,” 

“ Very true — I did not think of that,” answ^ered Lord Ether- 
ington ; “ still it would be hard on the poor girl if it should get 
abroad.” 

“ Oh, it will never get abroad for me,” said Lady Penelope ; 
“ I would not tell the very wind of it. But then I cannot meet 
Miss Mowbray as formerly — I have a station in life to main- 
tain, my lord — and I am under the necessity of being select in 
my society — it is a duty I owe the public, if it were even not my 
own inclination.” 

Certainly, my Lady Penelope,” said Lord Etherington ; 
“ but then consider that, in a place where all eyes are neces- 
sarily observant of your ladyship’s behavior, the least coldness 
on your part to Miss Mowbray — and, after all, we have nothing 
like assurance of anything being wrong there — would ruin her 
with the company here, and with the world at large.” 

“ Oh ! my lord,” answered Lady Penelope, “ as for the truth 
of the story, I have some private reasons of my own for holding 
the strange tale devoutly true ; for I had a mysterious hint 
from a very \vorthy, but a very singular man (your lordship 
knows how I adore originality), the clergyman of the parish, 
w'ho made me aware there was something wrong about Miss 
Clara — something that — your lordship will excuse my speaking 
more plainly — Oh, no — I fear — I fear it is all too true — You 
know Mr. Cargill, I suppose, my lord .? ” 

Yes — no — I — I think I have seen him,” said Lord Ether- 
ington. “ But how came the lady to make the parson her 
father-confessor ? — they have no auricular confession in the 
Kirk — it must have been with the purpose of marriage. I pre- 
sume — let us hope that it took place — perhaps it really was so 
— did he, Cargill — the minister, I mean — say anything of such 
a matter ? ” 

“ Not a word — not a word — I see where you are, my lord ; 
you would put a good face on’t. 

‘ They call’d it marriage, by that specious name 
To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.’ 

Queen Dido for that. How the clergyman came into the secret 


ST. TOA'AN'S WELL. 


332 

I cannot tell — he is a very close man. — But I know he will not 
hear of Miss Mowbray being married to any one, unquestion- 
ably because he knows that, in doing so, she would introduce 
disgrace into some honest family — and truly, I am much of his 
mind, my lord.” 

“ Perhaps Mr. Cargill may know the lady is privately mar- 
ried already,” said the Earl ; “ I think that is the more natural 
inference, begging your ladyship’s pardon for presuming to 
differ in opinion.” 

Lady Penelope seemed determined not to take this view of 
the case. 

“ No, no — no, I tell you,” she replied ; “ she cannot be 
married, for if she were married, how could the poor wretch say 
that she was ruined? — You know there is a difference betwixt 
ruin and marriage.” 

“ Some people are said to have found them synonymous, 
Lady Penelope,” answered the Earl. 

“ You are smart on me, my lord ; but still, in common par- 
lance, when we say a woman is ruined, we mean quite the con- 
trary of her being married — it is impossible for me to be more 
explicit upon such a topic, my lord.” 

“ I defer to your ladyship’s better judgment,” said Lord 
Etherington. “ I only entreat you to observe a little caution 
in this business — I will make the strictest inquiries of this 
woman, and acquaint you with the result ; and I hope, out of 
regard to the respectable family of St. Ronan’s, your ladyship 
will be in no hurry to intimate anything to Miss Mowbray’s 
prejudice.” 

“ I certainly am no person to spread scandal, my lord,” 
answered the lady, drawing herself up ; “ at the same time, I 
must say, the Mowbrays have little claim on me for forbearance. 
I am sure I was the first person to bring this Spa into fashion, 
which has been a matter of such consequence to their estate ; 
and yet Mr. Mowbray set himself against me, my lord, in every 
possible sort of way, and encouraged the underbred people 
about him to behave very strangely. — There was the business 
of building the Belvidere, which he would not permit to be done 
out of the stock-purse of the company because I had given the 
workmen the plan and the orders — and then, about the tea- 
room — and the hour for beginning dancing — and about the sub- 
scription for Mr. Rymour’s new Tale of Chivalry — in short, I 
owe no consideration to Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s.” 

But the poor young lady,” said Lord Etherington. 

“ Oh ! the poor young lady ? — the poor young lady can be as 
saucy as a rich young lady, I promise you. — There was a busi- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


333 


ness in which she used me scandalously, Lord Etherington— it 
was about a very trifling matter — a shawl. Nobody minds 
dress less than I do, my lord ; I thank Heaven my thoughts 
turn upon very different topics — but it is in trifles that dis- 
respect and unkindness are shown ; and I have had a full share 
of both from Miss Clara, besides a good deal of impertinence 
from her brother upon the same subject.” 

“ There is but one way remains,’* thought the Earl, as they 
approached the Spa, “ and that is to work on the fears of this 
d — d vindictive blue-stocking’d wild-cat. — Your ladyship,” he 
said aloud, “ is aware what severe damages have been awarded 
in late cases where something approaching to scandal has been 
traced to ladies of consideration — the privileges of the tea-table 
have been found insufficient to protect some fair critics against 
the consequences of too frank and liberal animadversion upon 
the characters of their friends. So pray, remember, that as yet 
we know very little on this subject.” 

Lady Penelope loved money, and feared the law ; and this 
hint, fortified by her acquaintance with Mowbray’s love of his 
sister, and his irritable and revengeful disposition, brought her 
in a moment much nearer the temper in which Lord Etherington 
wished to leave her. She protested that no one could be more 
tender than she of the fame of the unfortunate, even supposing 
their guilt was fully proved — promised caution on the subject 
of the pauper’s declaration, and hoped Lord Etherington would 
join her tea-party early in the evening, as she wished to make 
him acquainted with one or two of her proteges., whom, she was 
sure, his lordship would find deserving of his advice and coun- 
tenance. Being by this time at the door of her own apartment, 
her ladyship took leave of the Ear' with a most gracious smile. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 


On the lee-beam lies the land, boys, 

See all clear to reef each course ; 

Let the foresheet go, don’t mind, boys, 

Though the weather should be worse. 

The Storm. 

“ It darkens round me like a tempest. ’ thought Lord 
Etherington, as with slow step, folded arms, and his white hat 
slouched over his brows, he traversed the short interval of 


ST. TONAN^S WELL, 


334 

space betwixt his own apartments and those of the Lady Pe- 
nelope. In a buck of the old school, one of Congreve’s men of 
wit and pleasure about town, this would have been a departure 
from character ; but the present fine man does not derogate 
from his quality, even by exhibiting all the moody and gentle- 
manlike solemnity of Master Stephen. So, Lord Etherington 
was at liberty to carry on his reflections, without attracting 
observation. — “ I have put a stopper into the mouth of that old 
vinegar-cruet of quality, but the acidity of her temper will soon 
dissolve the charm — And what to do ? ” 

As he looked round him, he saw his trusty valet Solmes, 
who, touching his hat wdth due respect, said, as he passed him, 
“ Your Lordship’s letters are in your private despatch-box.” 

Simple as these words were, and indifferent the tone in 
which they were spoken, their import made Lord Etherington’s 
heart bound as if his fate had depended on the accents. He 
intimated no further interest in the communication, however, 
than to desire Solmes to be below, in case he should ring ; and 
with these words entered his apartment, and barred and bolted 
the door, even before he looked on the table where his de- 
spatch-box was placed. 

Lord Etherington had, as is usual, one key to the box which 
held his letters, his confidential servant being intrusted with 
the other ; so that, under the protection of a patent lock, his 
despatches escaped all risk of being tampered with — a pre- 
caution not altogether unnecessary on the part of those who 
frequent hotels and lodging-houses. 

“ By your leave, Mr. Bramah,” said the Earl, as he applied 
the key, jesting, as it were, with his own agitation, as he would 
have done with that of a third party. The lid was raised, and 
displayed the packet, the appearance and superscription of 
which had attracted his observation but a short while since in 
the post-office. Then he ‘would have given much to be pos- 
sessed of the opportunity which w'as now in his power; but 
many pause on the brink of a crime, who have contemplated it 
at a distance without scruple. Lord Etherington’s first impulse 
had led him to poke the fire ; and he held in his hand the 
letter which he was more than half tempted to commit, without 
even breaking the seal, to the fiery element. But, though suffi- 
ciently familiarized with guilt, he was not as yet acquainted 
with it in its basest shapes — he had not yet acted with mean- 
ness, or at least with what the world terms such. He had been 
a duelist, the manners of the age authorized it — a libertine, the 
world excused it to his youth and condition — a bold and suc- 
cessful gambler, for that quality he was admired and envied ; 


ST, RONAN'S WELL. 


335 

and a thousand other inaccuracies, to which these practices 
and habits lead, were easily slurred over in a man of quality, 
with fortune and spirit to support his rank. But his present 
meditated act was of a different kind. Tell it not in Bond 
Street, whisper it not on St. James’s pavement ! — it amounted 
to an act of petty larceny, for which the code of honor would 
admit of no composition. 

Lord Etherington, under the influence of these recollections, 
stood for a few minutes suspended — But the devil always finds 
logic to convince his followers. He recollected the wrong done 
to his mother, and to himself, her offspring, to whom his father 
had, in the face of the whole world, imparted the hereditary 
rights, of which he was now, by a posthumous deed, endeavor- 
ing to deprive the memory of the one, and the expectations of 
the other. Surely, the right being his own, he had a full title, 
by the most effectual means, whatever such means might be, 
to repel all attacks on that right, and even destroy, if necessary, 
the documents by which his enemies were prosecuting their 
unjust plans against his honor and interest. 

This reasoning prevailed, and Lord Etherington again held 
the devoted packet above the flames ; when it occurred to him, 
that, his resolution being taken, he ought to carry it into exe- 
cution as effectually as possible ; and to do so, it was neces- 
sary to know that the packet actually contained the papers 
which he was desirous to destroy. 

Never did a doubt arise in juster time ; for no sooner had 
the seal burst and the envelope rustled under his fingers, 
than he perceived, to his utter consternation, that he held in 
his hand only the copies of the deeds for which Francis 
Tyrrel had written, the originals of which he had too sanguinely 
concluded w'ould be forwarded according to his requisition. 
A letter from a partner of the house with which they were de- 
posited stated that they had not felt themselves at liberty, in 
the absence of the head of their firm, to whom these papers 
had been committed, to part with them even to Mr. Tyrrel, 
though they had proceeded so far as to open the parcel, and 
now transmitted to him formal copies of the papers contained 
in it, which they presumed would serve Mr. Tyrrel’s purpose 
for consulting counsel or the like. They themselves, in a case 
of so much delicacy, and in the absence of their principal part- 
ner, were determined to retain the originals, unless called to 
produce them in a court of justice. * 

With a solemn imprecation on the formality and absurdity 
of the writer, Lord Etherington let the letter of advice drop 
from his hand into the fire, and, throwing himself into a chair, 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


336 

passed his hand across his eyes, as if their very power of sight 
had been blighted by what he had read. His title and his 
paternal fortune, which he thought but an instant before might 
be rendered unchallengeable by a single movement of his 
hand, seemed now on the verge of being lost forever. His 
rapid recollection failed not to remind him of what was less 
known to the world, that his early and profuse expenditure had 
greatly dilapidated his maternal fortune ; and that the estate 
of Nettlewood, which five minutes ago he only coveted as a 
wealthy man desires increase of his store, must now be ac- 
quired, if he would avoid being a poor and embarrassed spend- 
thrift. To impede his possessing himself of this property, 
fate had restored to the scene the penitent of the morning, 
who, as he had too much reason to believe, was returned to this 
neighborhood, to do justice to Clara Mowbray, and who was not 
unlikely to put the whole story of the marriage on its right 
footing. She, however, might be got rid of ; and it might still 
be possible to hurry Miss Mowbray, by working on her fears, 
or through the agency of her brother, into a union with him 
while he still preserved the title of Lord Etherington. This, 
therefore, he resolved to secure, if effort or if intrigue could 
carry the point ; nor was it the least consideration, that should 
he succeed, he v/ould obtain over Tyrrel, his successful rival, 
such a triumph as would be sufficient to embitter the tranquil- 
ity of his whole life. 

In a few minutes his rapid and contriving invention had 
formed a plan for securing the sole advantage which seemed 
to remain open for him ; and, conscious that he had no time 
to lose, he entered immediately upon the execution. 

The bell summoned Solmes to his lordship’s apartment, 
when the Earl, as coolly as if he had hoped to dupe his experi- 
enced valet by such an assertion, said, “ You have brought me 
a packet designed for some man at the Aultoun — let it be sent 
to him — Stay, I will re-seal it first.” 

He accordingly re-sealed the packet, containing all the 
writings, excepting the letter of advice (which he had burnt), 
and gave it to the valet, with the caution, “ I wish you would 
not make such blunders in future.” 

“ I beg your lordship’s pardon — I will take better care again 
— thought it was addressed to your lordship.” 

So answered Solmes, too knowing to give the least intelli- 
geilce, far less to remind the Earl that his own directions had 
occasioned the mistake of which he complained. 

“ Solmes,” continued the Earl, “ you need not mention your 
blunder at the post-office ; it would only occasion tattle in 


Sr. RONAN^S WELL. 


337 


this idle place — but be sure that the gentleman has his letter. 
And, Solmes, I see Mr. Mowbray walk across — ask him to 
dine with me to-day at five. I have a headache, and cannot 
face the clamor of the savages who feed at the public table. 
And — let me see — make my compliments to Lady Penelope 
Penfeather — I will certainly have the honor of waiting 
her ladyship this evening to tea, agreeably to her very boring 
invitation received — write her a proper card, and word it your 
own way. Bespeak dinner for two, and see you have some of 
that batch of Burgundy.” 

The servant was retiring, when his master added, “ Stay a 
moment — I have a more important business than 1 have yet 
mentioned. Solmes, you have managed devilish ill about the 
woman Irwin ! ” 

“ I, my lord ? ” answered Solmes. 

“ Yes, you, sir — did you not tell me she had gone to the 
West Indies with a friend of yours, and did not I give them a 
couple of hundred pounds for passage-money ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord,” replied the valet. 

“ Ay, but now it proves no, my lord,” said Lord Etherington ; 
‘‘for she has found her way back to this country in miserable 
plight — half-starved, and, no doubt, willing to do or say any- 
thing for a livelihood — How has this happened ? ” 

“ Biddulph luust have taken her cash and turned her loose, 
my lord,” answered Solmes, as if he had been speaking of the 
most commonplace transaction in the world ; “ but I know the 
woman’s nature so well, and am so much master of her history, 
that 1 can carry her off the country in twenty-four hours, and 
place her where she will never think of returning, provided your 
lordship can spare me so long.” 

“ About it directly — but I can tell you, that you will find 
the woman in a very "penitential humor, and very ill in health 
to boot.” 

“ I am sure of my game,” answered Solmes ; “ with submis- 
sion to your lordship, I think if death and her good angel had 
hold of one of that woman’s arms, the devil and I could make 
a shift to lead her away by the other.” 

“ Away, and about "it, then,” said Etherington. “ But, hark 
ve, Solmes, be kind to her, and see all her wants relieved. I 
have done her mischief enough — though nature and the devil 
had done half the work to my hand.” 

Solmes at length was permitted to withdraw to execute his 
various commissions, with an assurance that his services would 
not be wanted for the next twenty-four hours. 

“ Soh ! ” said the Earl, as his agent withdrew, “ there is a 


ST. TOATAAT’S WELL, 


33 ^ 

spring put in motion which, well oiled, will move the whole 
machine — And here, in lucky time, comes Harry Jekyl — I hear 
his whistle on the stairs. There is a silly lightness of heart 
about that fellow, which I envy while I despise it ; but he is 
welcome now, for I want him.” 

Jekyl entered accordingly, and broke out with, “ I am glad 
to see one of your fellows laying a cloth for two in your parlor, 
Etherington — I was afraid you were going down among these 
confounded bores again to-day.” 

“ You are not to be one of the two, Hal,” answered Lord 
Etherington. 

“No ? — then I may be a third, I hope, if not second } ” 

“Neither first, second, nor third. Captain. The truth is, 
I want a tUe-a-iUe with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s,” replied 
the Earl : “ and, besides, I have to beg the very particular 
favor of you to go again to that fellow Martigny. It is time 
that he should produce his papers, if he has any— of which, for 
one, I do not believe a word. He has had ample time to hear 
from London ; and I think I have delayed long enough in an 
important matter upon his bare assertion.” 

“ I cannot blame your impatience,” said Jekyl, “ and I will 
go on your errand instantly. As you waited on my advice, I 
am bound to find an end to your suspense. At the same time, 
if the man is not possessed of such papers as he spoke of, I 
must own he is happy in a command of consummate assurance 
which might set up the whole roll of attorneys.” 

“ You will be soon able to judge of that,” said Lord Ether- 
ington ; “ and now, off with you — Why do you look at me so 
anxiously ? ” 

“ I cannot tell — I have strange forebodings about this 
tete-a-tete with Mowbray. You should spare him, Etherington, 
— he is not your match — wants both judgment and temper.” 

“ Tell him so, Jekyl,” answered the Earl, “ and his proud 
Scotch stomach will be up in an instant,* and he will pay you 
with a shot for your pains. — Why, he thinks himself Cock of 
the walk, this strutting bantam, notwithstanding the lesson I 
gave him before — And what do you think ? — he has the im- 
pudence to talk about my attentions to Lady Binks.as incon- 
sistent with the prosecution of my suit to his sister ! Yes, 
Hal — this awkward Scotch laird, that has scarce tact enough 
to make love to a ewe-milker, or, at best, to some daggletailed 
soubre*tte, has the assurance to start himself as my rival ! ” 
“Then, good-night to St. Ronan’s! — this will be a fatal 
dinner to him. — Etherington, I know by that laugh vou are bent 
on mischief — I have a great mind to give him a hint.” 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


339 

“ I wish you would,” answered the Earl ; “ it would all turn 
to my account.” 

“ Do you defy me ? — Well, if I meet him, I will put him on 
his guard.” 

The friends parted ; and it was not long ere Jekyl encoun- 
tered Mowbray on one of the public walks. 

“You dine with Etherington to-day.?” said the Captain— 
“ Forgive me, Mr. Mowbray, if I say one single word — Beware.” 

“Of what should I beware, Captain Jekyl,” answered Mow- 
bray, “ when I dine with a friend of your own, and a man of 
honor .? ” 

“ Certainly Lord Etherington is both, Mr. Mowbray ; but he 
loves play, and is too hard for most people.” 

“ I thank you for your hint. Captain Jekyl — I am a raw Scot- 
tishman, it is true ; but yet I know a thing or two. Fair play 
is always presumed amongst gentleman ; and, that taken for 
granted, I have the vanity to think I need no one’s caution on 
the subject, not even Captain Jekyl’s, though his experience 
must needs be so much superior to mine.” 

“In that case, sir,” said Jekyl, bowing coldly, “ I have no 
more to say, and I hope there is no harm done. — Conceited 
coxcomb ! ” he added, mentally, as they parted, “ how truly did 
Etherington judge of him, and what an ass was I to inter- 
meddle ! — I hope Etherington will strip him of every feather,” 

He pursued his walk in quest of Tyrrel, and Mowbray pro- 
ceeded to the apartments of the Earl, in a temper of mind well 
suited to the purposes of the latter, who judged of his disposi- 
tion accurately when he permitted Jekyl to give his well-meant 
warning. To be supposed, by a man of acknowledged fashion, 
so decidedly inferior to his antagonist — to be considered as an 
object of compassion, and made the subject of a good-boy 
warning, was gall and bitterness to his proud spirit, which, the 
more that he felt a conscious inferiority in the arts which they 
all cultivated, struggled the more to preserve the footing of at 
least apparent equality. 

Since the first memorable party at piquet, Mowbray had 
never hazarded his luck with Lord Etherington, except for trifling 
stakes ; but his conceit led him to suppose that he now fully un- 
derstood his play, and, agreeably to the practice of those who 
have habituated themselves to gambling, he had, every now and 
then, felt a yearning to try for his revenge. He wished also to 
be out of Lord Etherington’s debt, feeling galled under a sense 
of pecuniary obligation, which hindered his speaking his mind 
to him fully upon the subject of his flirtation with Lady Binks, 
which he justly considered as an insult to his family, consider- 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


340 

ing the footing on which the Earl seemed desirous to stand with 
Clara Mowbray. From these obligations a favorable evening 
might free him, and Mowbray was, in fact, indulgingin a waking 
dream to this purpose, when Jekyl interrupted him. His un- 
timely warning only excited a spirit of contradiction, and a de- 
termination to show the adviser how little he was qualified to 
judge of his talents ; and in this humor, his ruin, which was the 
consequence of that afternoon, was far from even seeming to 
be the premeditated, or even the voluntary, work of the Earl of 
Etherington. 

On the contrary, the victini himself was the first to propose 
play — deep play — double stakes ; while Lord Etherington, on 
the other hand, often proposed to diminish their game, or to 
break off entirely ; but it was always with an affectation of supe- 
riority, which only stimulated Mowbray to further and more 
desperate risks; and, at last, when Mowbray became his debtor 
to an overwhelming amount (his circumstances considered), the 
Earl threw down the cards, and declared he should be too 
late for Lady Penelope’s tea-party, to which he was positively 
engaged. 

“ Will you not give me my revenge ? ” said Mowbray, taking 
up the cards, and shuffling them with fierce anxiety. 

“ Not now, Mowbray; we have played too long already — 
you have lost too much — more than perhaps is convenient for 
you to pay.” 

Mowbray gnashed his teeth, in spite of his resolution to 
maintain an exterior, at least, of firmness. 

“ You can take your time you know,” said the Earl ; “ a 
note of hand will suit me as well as the money.” 

“ No, by G — ! ” answered Mowbray, “ I will not be so 
taken in a second time — I had better have sold myself to the 
devil than to your lordship — I have never been my own man 
since.” 

“ These are not very kind expressions, Mowbray,” said the 
Earl ; “ you would play, and they that will play must expect 
sometimes to lose ” 

“ And they who win will expect to be paid,” said Mowbray, 
breaking in. “ I know that as well as you, my lord, and you 
shall be paid — I will pay you — I will pay you, by G — ! Do 
you make any doubt that I will pay you, my lord ? ” 

“ You look asdf you thought of paying me in sharp coin,” 
said Lord Etherington ; “ and I think that would scarce be 
consistent with the terms we stand upon toward each other.” 

By my soul,” said Mowbray, “ I cannot tell what these 
terms are ; and to be at my wit’s end at once, I should be glad 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


341 


to know. You set out upon paying addresses to my sister and, 
with your visits and opportunities at Shaws Castle, I cannot 
find the matter makes the least progress — it keeps moving 
without advancing, like a child’s rocking-horse. Perhaps you 
think that you have curbed me up so tightly that I dare not 
stir in the matter; but you will find it otherwise. — Your lord- 
ship may keep a harem if you will, but my sister shall not 
enter it.” 

‘‘You are angry, and therefore you are unjust,” said Ether- 
iigton; “you know Vv'ell enough it is your sister’s fault that 
there is any delay. I am most willing — most desirous to call 
her Lady Etherington — nothing but her unlucky prejudices 
against me have retarded a union which 1 have so many rea- 
sons for desiring.” 

_ “ Well,” replied Mowbray, “ that shall be my business. I 

know no reason she can pretend to decline a marriage so hon- 
orable to her house, and which is approved of by me, that 
house’s head. The matter shall be arranged in twenty-four 
hours.” 

“ It will do me the most sensible pleasure,” said Lord 
Etherington ; “ you shall soon see how sincerely I desire your 
alliance ; and as for the trifle you have lost” 

“It is no trifle to me, my lord — it is my ruin — but it shall 
be paid — and let me tell your lordship, you may thank your 
good luck for it more than your good play.” 

“ We will say no more of it at present, if you please,” said 
Lord Etherington, “ to-morrow is a new day ; and if you will 
take my advice, you will not be too harsh with your sister. 
A little firmness is seldom amiss with young women, but 
severity ” 

“ I will pray your lordship to spare me your advice on this 
subject. However valuable it may be in other respects, I can. 
I take it, speak to my own sister in my own way.” 

“ Since you are so caustically disposed, Mowbray,” answered 
the Earl, “ I presume you will not honor her ladyship’s tea- 
table to-night, though T believe it will be the last of the 
season .? ” 

“And why should 3^011 think so, my lord } ” answered Mow- 
bra}'', whose losses had rendered him testy and contradictory 
upon every subject that was started. “ Why should not I pay 
mv respects to Lady Penelope, or any other tabby of quality ? 
I have no title, indeed ; but I suppose that my family 

“ Entitles you to become a canon of Strasburg, doubtless — ■ 
But you do not seem in a very Christian mood for taking 


342 


ST. RONANS WELL. 


orders. All I meant to say was, that you and Lady Pen were 
not used to be on such a good footing.” 

“ Well, she sent me a card for her blow-out,” said Mow- 
bray ; “ and so I am resolved to go. When I have been there 
half-an-hoiir, I will ride up to Shaws Castle, and you shall hear 
of my speed in wooing for you to-morrow morning.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH. 

A TEA-PARTY. 

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; 

And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, 

Thus let us welcome peaceful evening in. 

Cowper’s Task. 

The approach of the cold and rainy season had now so far 
thinned the company at the Well, that, in order to secure the 
necessary degree of crowd upon her tea-nights. Lady Penelope 
was obliged to employ some coaxing toward those whom she 
had considered as much under par in society. Even the 
Doctor and Mrs. Blower were graciously smiled upon — for 
their marriage was now an arranged affair; and the event was 
of a nature likely to spread the reputation of the Spa among 
wealthy widows, and medical gentlemen of more skill than 
practice. So in they came, the Doctor smirking, gallanting, 
and performing all the bustling parade of settled and arranged 
courtship, with much of that grace wherewith a turkev-ccck 
goes through the same ceremony. Old Touchwood had also' 
attended her ladyship’s summons, chiefly, it may be supposed, 
from his restless fidgety disposition, which seldom suffered him 
to remain absent even from those places of resort of which he 
usually professed his detestation. There was, besides, Mr. 
Winterblossom, who, in his usual spirit of quiet epicurism and 
quiet self-indulgence, was, under the fire of a volley of compli- 
ments to Lady Penelope, scheming to secure for himself an 
early cup of tea. There was Lady Binks also, with the wonted 
degree of sullenness in her beautiful face, angry at her husband 
as usual, and not disposed to be pleased with Lord Etherington 
for being absent when she desired to excite Sir Bingo’s jealo\isy. 
This she had discovered to be the most effectual way of tor* 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


343 


menting the Baronet, and she rejoiced in it with the savage 
glee of a hackney coachman, who has found a raw, where he 
can make his poor jade feel the whip. The rest of the com- 
pany were also in attendance as usual. MacTiirk himself was 
present, notwithstanding that he thought it an egregious waste 
of hot water, to bestow it upon compounding any mixture, 
saving punch. He had of late associated himself a good deal 
wich the traveler ; not that they by any means resembled each 
other in temper or opinions, but rather because there was that 
degree of difference betwixt them which furnished perpetual 
subject for dispute and discussion. They were not long, on the 
present occasion, ere they lighted on a fertile source of con- 
troversy. 

“ Never tell me of your points of honor,” said Touchwood, 
raising his voice altogether above the general tone of polite 
conversation — “ all humbug. Captain MacTurk — mere hair- 
traps to springe woodcocks — men of sense break through 
them.” 

“Upon my word, sir,” said the Captain, “and myself is 
surprised to hear you — for, look you, sir, every man’s honor is 
the breath of his nostrils — Cot tamn ! ” 

“ Then let men breathe through their mouths and be 
d— d,” returned the controversialist. “ I tell you, sir, that, 
besides its being forbidden, both by law and gospel, it’s an 
idiotical and totally absurd practice, that of dueling. An 
honest savage has more sense than to practice it — he takes 
his bow or his gun, as the thing may be, and shoots his enemy 
from behind a bush. And a very good way ; for you see there 
can, in that case, be only one man’s death between them.” 

“ Saul of my body, sir,” said the Captain, “gin ye promul- 
gate sic doctrines among the good company, it’s my belief you 
will bring somebody to the gallows.” 

“Thank ye. Captain, with all my heart; but I stir up no 
quarrels — I leave war to them that live by it. I only say, 
that, except our old stupid ancestors in the north-west here, 
I know no country so silly as to harbor this custom of 
dueling. It is unknown in Africa, among the negroes — in 
America.” 

“Don’t tell me that,” said the Captain; “a Yankee will 
fight with muskets and buck-shot, rather than sit still with an 
affront. I should know Jonathan, I think.” 

“ Altogether unknown among the thousand tribes of India.” 

“ I’ll be tamned, then ! ” said Captain MacTurk. ^ “ Was I 
not in Tippoo’s prison at Bangalore ? and, when the joyful day 
of our liberation came, did we not solemnize it with fourteen 


ST, TOA^AjV’S well. 


344 

little affairs, whereof we had been laying the foundation in our 
house of captivity, as Holy Writ has it, and never went 
further to settle them than the glacis of the fort? By my 
soul, you would have thought there was a smart skirmish, the 
firing was so close; and did not I, Captain MacTurk, fight 
three of them myself, without moving my foot from the place I 
set it on ? ” 

“ And pray, sir, what might be the result of this Christian 
mode of giving thanks for your deliverance?” demanded Mr. 
Touchwood. 

“A small list of casualties, after all,” said the Captain; 
“one killed on the spot, one died of his wounds — two wounded 
severely — three ditto slightly, and little Duncan Macphail re- 
ported missing. We were out of practice, after such long 
confinement. So you see how we managed matters in India, 
my dear friend.” 

“ You are to understand,” replied Touchwood, “that I spoke 
only of the heathen natives, who, heathen as they are, live in 
the light of their own moral reason, and among whom ye shall 
therefore see better examples of practical morality than among 
such as yourselves ; who, though calling yourselves Christians, 
have no more knowledge of the true acceptation and meaning 
of your religion than if you had left your Christianity at the 
Cape of Good Hope, as they say of you, and forgot to take it 
up when you came back again.” 

“ Py Cot ! and I can tell you, sir,” said the Captain, elevat- 
ing at once his voice and his nostrils, and snuffing the air with 
a truculent and indignant visage, “ that I will not permit you 
or any man to throw any such scandal on my character. I 
thank Cot, I can bring good witness that 1 am as good a Chris- 
tian as another, for a poof sinner, as the best of us are ; and I 
am ready to justify my religion with my sword— Cot tamn ! — 
Compare my own self with a parcel of black heathen bodies 
and natives, that were never in the inner side of a kirk whilst 
they lived, but go about worshipping stocks and stones, and 
swinging themselves upon bamboos, like peasts, as they are ! ” 

An indignant growling in his throat, which sounded like 
the acquiescence of his inward man in the indignant propo- 
sition which his external organs thus expressed, concluded this 
haughty speech, which, however, made not the least impression 
on Touchwood, who cared as little for angry tones and looks as 
he did for fine speeches. So that it is likely a quarrel between 
the Christian preceptor and the peacemaker might have occur- 
red for the amusement of the company, had not the attention 
of both, but particularly that of Touchwood, been diverted 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


345 

from the topic of debate by the entrance of Lord Etherington 
and Mowbray. 

The former was, as usual, all grace, smiles, and gentleness. 
Yet, contrary to his wonted custom, which usually was, after a 
few general compliments, to attach himself particularly to Lady 
Links, the Earl, on the present occasion, avoided the side of 
the room on which that beautiful but sullen idol held her sta- 
tion, and attached himself exclusively to Lady Penelope Pen- 
feather, enduring, without flinching, the strange variety of con- 
ceited bavardagc, which that lady’s natural parts and acquired 
information enabled her to pour forth with unparalleled pro- 
fusion. 

An honest heathen, one of Plutarch’s heroes if I mistake 
not, dreamed once upon a night, that the figure of Proserpina, 
whom he had long worshipped, visited his slumbers with an 
angry and vindictive countenance, and menaced him with ven- 
geance, in resentment of his having neglected her altars, with 
the usual fickleness of a Polytheist, for those of- some more 
fasliionable divinity. Not that goddess of the infernal regions 
herself could assume a more haughty or more displeased coun- 
tenance than that with which Lady Pinks looked from lime to 
time upon Lord hkherington, as if to warn him of the con- 
sequence ■ of this departure from the allegiance which the 
young Earl had hitherto manifested toward her, and which 
seemed now, she knew not why, unless it were for the purpose 
of public insult, to be transferred to her r’val. Perilous as her 
eye-glances were, and much as they menaced, Lord Ethering- 
ton felt at this moment the importance of soothing Lady Pene- 
lope to silence on the subject of the invalid’s confession of that 
morning, to be more pressing than that of appeasing the indig- 
nation of Lady Pinks. The former was a case of the most 
urgent necessity — the latter, if he w^as at all anxious on the 
subject, might, he perhaps thought, be trusted to time. Plad the 
ladies continued on a tolerable footing together, he might have 
endeavored to conciliate both. Put the bitterness of their long 
suppressed feud had greatly increased, now that it w'as probable 
the end of the season was to separate them, in all likelihood 
forever ; so that Lady Penelope had no longer any motive for 
countenancing Ladv Pinks, or the lady of Sir Pingo for desir- 
ing Lady Penelope’s countenance. The wealth and lavish ex- 
pense of the one was no longer to render more illustrious the 
suit of her right honorable friend, nor was the society of Lady 
Penelope likely to be soon again useful or necessary to Lady 
Pinks. So that neither were any longer desirous to suppress 
symptom of the mutual contempt and dislike which they had long 


ST. ROATA/V^S WELL. 


346 

nourished for each other ; and whoever should, in this decisive 
hour, take part with one, had little henceforward to expect from 
her rival. What further and more private reasons Lady Binks 
might have to resent the defection of Lord Etheringlon, have 
never come with certainty to our knowledge ; but it was said 
there had been high words between them on the floating report 
that his lordship’s visits to Shaws Castle were dictated by the 
wish to find a bride there. 

Women’s wits are said to be quick in spying the surest 
means of avenging a real or supposed slight. After biting 
her pretty lips, and revolving in her mind the readiest means 
of vefigeance, fate threw in her way young Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s. She looked at him, and endeavored to fix his 
attention with a nod and gracious smile, such as in an ordi- 
nary mood would hav^e instantly drawn him to her side. On 
receiving in answer only a vacant glance and a bow, she was led 
to observe him more attentively, and was induced to believe, 
from his wavering look, varying complexion, and unsteady step, 
that he had been drinking unusually deep. Still his eye was 
less that of an intoxicated than of a disturbed and desperate 
man, one whose faculties were engrossed by deep and turbid 
reflection, which withdrew him from the passing scene. 

“ Do you observe how ill Mr. Mowbray looks ? ” said she, 
in a loud whisper ; “ I hope he has not heard what Lady Pe- 
nelope was just now saying of his family ? ” 

“Unless he hears it from you, my lady,” answered Mr. 
Touchwood, who, upon Mowbray’s entrance, had broken off his 
discourse with MacTurk, “ I think there is little chance of his 
learning it from any other person.” 

“ What is the matter } ” said Mowbray, sharply, addressing 
Chatterly and Winterblossom ; but the one shrunk nervously 
from the question, protesting, he indeed had not been precisely 
attending to what had been passing among the ladies, and 
Winterblossom bowed out of the scrape with quiet and cautious 
politeness — “ He really had not given particular attention to 
what was passing — I was negotiating with Mrs. Jones for an 
additional lump of sugar to my coffee. Egad, it was so difficult 
a piece of diplomacy,” he added, sinking his voice ; “ that I 
have an idea her ladyship calculates the West India produce by 
grains and pennyweights.” 

The innuendo, if designed to make Mowbray smile, was far 
from succeeding. He stepped forward, with more than usual 
stiffness in his air, which was never entirely free from self-con- 
sequence, and said to Lady Binks, “ May I request to know 


ST. ROMANES WELL, 


347 

of your ladyship what particular respecting my family had the 
honor to engage the attention of the company ? ” 

“I was only a listener, Mr. Mowbray,” returned Lady 
Binks, with evident enjoyment of the rising indignation which 
she read in his countenance ; “ being queen of the night, 
I am not at all disposed to be answerable for the turn of the 
conversation.” 

Mowbray, in no humor to bear jesting, yet afraid to expose 
himself by further inquiry in a company so public, darted a 
fierce look at Lady Penelope, then in close conversation with 
Lord Etherington, — advanced a step or two toward them, — 
then, as if checking himself, turned on his heel and left the 
room. A few minutes afterward, and when certain satirical 
nods and winks were circulating among the assembly, a waiter 
slid a piece of paper into Mrs. Jones’s hand, who, on looking 
at the contents, seemed about to leave the room. 

“Jones — Jones!” exclaimed Lady Penelope, in surprise 
and displeasure. 

“ Only the key of the tea-caddie, your ladyship,” answered 
Jones ; “I will be back in an instant.” 

“Jones — Jones I ’’again exclaimed her mistress, “ here is 
enough ” — of tea, she would have said ; but Lord Etherington 
was so near her, that she was ashamed to complete the sen- 
tence, and had only hope in Jones’s quickness of apprehensioTi, 
and the prospect that she would be unable to find the key 
which she went in search of. 

Jones, meanwhile, tripped off to a sort of housekeeper’s 
apartment, of which she was locum te7iens for the evening, for 
the more ready supply of whatever might be wanted on Lady 
Penelope’s night, as it was called. Here she found Mr. Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s, whom she instantly began to assail with 
“ La ! now, Mr. Mowbray, you are such another gentleman 1 — I 
am sure you will make me lose my place — I’ll swear you will — 
what can you have to say, that you could not as well put off for 
an hour } ” 

“I want to know, Jones,” answered Mowbray, in a different 
tone, perhaps, from what the damsel expected, “ what your 
lady was just now saying about my family } ” 

“Pshaw! — was that all ?” answered Mrs. Jones. “What 
should she be saying ? — nonsense — Who minds what she says ? 
I am sure I never do, for one.” 

“ Nay, but, my dear Jones,” said Mowbray, “I insist upon 
knowing — I must know, and I will know.” 

“La! Mr. Mowbray, why should I make mischief? — As I 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


348 

live, I hear some one coming ! and if you were found speaking 
with me here — indeed, indeed, some one is coming ! ” 

“The devil may come, if he will ! ” said Mowbray, “ but we 
do not part, pretty mistress, till you tell me what I wish to 
know.” 

“Lord, sir, you frighten me!” answered Jones ; “ but all 
the room heard it as well as 1 — it was about Miss Mowbray — 
and that my lady would be shy of her company hereafter — foi 
that she was — she was ” 

“For that my sister was W/^r//”said Mowbray, fiercely, 
seizing her arm. 

“ Lord, sir, you terrify me,” said Jones, beginning to cry ; 
“ at any rate, it was not 1 that said it — it was Lady Penelope.” 

“ And what was it the old, adder-tongued madwoman dared 
to say of Clara Mowbray 1 — Speak out plainly, and directly, or, 
by Heaven, I’ll make you ! ” 

“ Hold, sir — hold, for God’s sake ! — you will break my arm,” 
answered the terrified handmaiden. “ I am sure 1 know no 
harm of Mi$s Mowbray ; only, my lady spoke as if she was no 
better than she ought to be. — Lord, sir, there is some one 
listening at the door 1 ” — and making a spring out of his grasp, 
she hastened back to the room in which the company were 
assembled. 

Mowbray stood petrified at the news he had heard, igno- 
rant alike wfiiat could be the motive for a calummy so atro- 
cious, and uncertain what he were best do to put a stop to 
the scandal. To his further confusion, he was presently con- 
vinced of the truth of Mrs. Jones’s belief that they had been 
watched, for, as he went to the door of the apartment, he was 
met by Mr. Touchwood. 

“ What has brought you here sir ? ” said Mowbray, sternly. 

“ Hoitie, toitie,” answered the traveler, “ why, how came 
you here, if you go to that, squire ? — Egad, Lady Penelope is 
trembling for her souchong, so I just took a step here to save 
her ladyship the trouble of looking after Mrs. Jones in person, 
which, I think, might have been a worse interruption than 
mine Mr. Mowbray.” 

“ Pshaw, sir, you talk nonsense,” said Mowbray ; “ the tea- 
room is so infernally hot, that I had sat down here a moment 
to draw breath, when the young woman came in.” 

“ And you are going to run away, now the old gentleman is 
come in,” said Touchw'ood — “Come, sir, I am more your 
friend than you may think.” 

“ Sir, you are intrusive — I want nothing that you can give 
me,” said Mowbray. 


ST. TONAN'S WELL. 


349 

“ That is a mistake,” answered the senior ; “ for I can 
supply you with what most young men want — money and 
wisdom.” 

“ You will do well to keep both till they are wanted,” said 
Mowbray. 

Why, so I would, squire, only that I have taken something 
of a fancy for your family ; and they are supposed to have 
wanted cash and good counsel for two generations, if not for 
three.” 

“ Sir,” said Mowbray, angrily, “ 5^011 are too old either to play 
the buffoon or to get buffoon’s payment.” 

“ Which is like monkey’s allowance, I suppose,” said the 
traveler, “ more kicks than halfpence. — Well — at least I am 
not young enough to quarrel with boys for bullying. I’ll con- 
vince you, however, Mr. Mowbray, that I know some more of 
your affairs than what you give me credit for.” 

“ It may be,” answered Mowbray ; “ but you will oblige me 
more by minding )^our own.” 

“ Very like ; meantime, your losses to-night to my Lord 
Etherington are no trifle, and no secret neither.” 

“ Mr. Touchwood, I desire to know where you had your 
information t ” said Mowbray. 

“ A matter of very little consequence compared to its truth 
or falsehood, Mr. Mowbray,” answered the old gentleman. 

“ But of the last importance to me, sir,” said Mowbray. 
“ In a word, had you such information by or through means of 
Lord Etherington — Ans.wer me this single question, and then 
I shall know better what to think on the subject.” 

“ Upon my honor,” said Touchwood, “ I neither had my 
information from Lord Etherington directly nor indirectly. I 
say thus much to give you satisfaction, and I now expect you 
will hear me with patience.” 

“ Forgive me, sir,” interrupted Mowbray, “ one further ques- 
tion. I understand something was said in disparagement of 
my sister just as I entered the tea-room ? ” 

Hem — hem — hem,” said Touchwood, hesitating. “ I am 
sorrv your ears have served you so well — something there was 
said lightly, something that can be easily explained, I dare say ; 
— And now, Mr. Mowbray, let me speak a few serious words 
with you.” 

“ And now, Mr. Touchwood, we have no more to say to 
each other — good evening to you.” 

He brushed past the old man, who in vain endeavored to 
stop him, and, hurrying to the stable, demanded his horse. It 
was ready saddled, and waited his orders ; but even the short 


Sr. RONAN^S WELL. 


350 

time that was necessary to bring it to the door of the stable 
was exasperating to Mowbray’s impatience. Not less exasper- 
ating was the constant interceding voice of Touchwood, who, in 
tones alternately plaintive and snappish, kept on a string of 
expostulations. 

“ Mr. Mowbray, only five words with you — Mr. Mowbray, 
you will repent this — Is this a night to ride in, Mr. Mowbray 
— My stars, sir, if you would but have five minutes’ patience ! ” 

Curses, not loud but deep, muttered in the throat of the im- 
patient laird, were the only reply, until his horse was brought 
out, when, staying no further question, he sprung into the saddle. 
The poor horse paid for the delay, which could not be laid to 
his cLarge. Mowbray struck him hard with his spurs as soon 
as he was in his seat — the noble animal reared, bolted, and 
sprung forward like a deer, over stock and stone, the nearest 
road — and we are aware it was a rough one — to Shaws Castle. 
There is a sort of instinct by which horses perceive the humor 
of their riders, and are furious and impetuous, or dull and 
sluggish, as if to correspond with it ; and Mowbray’s gallant 
steed seemed on this occasion to feel all the stings of his master’s 
internal ferment, although not again urged with the spur. The 
ostler stood listening to the clash of the hoofs succeeding each 
other in thick and close gallop, until they died away in the 
distant woodland. 

“ If St. Ronan’s reach home this night, with his neck 
unbroken,” muttered the fellow, “ the devil must have it in 
keeping.” 

“ Mercy on us ! ” said the traveler, “he ripes like a Bedouin 
Arab ! but in the desert there are neither trees to cross the 
road, nor cleughs, nor lins, nor floods, nor fords. Well, I must 
set to work myself, or this gear will get worse than even I can 
mend. — Here you, ostler, let me have your best pair of horses 
instantly to Shaws Castle.” 

“ To Shaws Castle, sir ? ” said the man, with some surprise. 

“ Yes — do you not know such a place ? ” 

“ In troth, sir, sae few company go there, except on the great 
ball da}'-, that we have had time to forget the road to it — but 
St. Ronan’s was here even now, sir.” 

“ Ay, what of that ? — he has ridden on to get supper ready 
— so, turn out, without loss of time.” 

“ At your pleasure, sir,” said the fellow, and called to the 
postilion accordingly. 


ST. J^OJVAJV^S WELL. 


3SI 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH. 

DEBATE. 

Sedet post equitem atra cura 

Still though the headlong cavalier, 

O’er rough and smooth, in wild career, 

Seems racing with the wind 
His sad companion, — ghastly pale. 

And darksome as a widow’s veil. 

Care — keeps her seat behind. 

Horace. 

Well was it that night for Mowbray, that he had always 
piqued himself on his horses, and that the animal on which he 
was then mounted was as sure-footed and sagacious as he was 
mettled and fiery. For those who observed next day the print 
of the hoofs on the broken and rugged track through which the 
creature had been driven at full speed by his furious master, 
might easily see, that in more than a dozen of places the horse 
and rider had been within a few inches of destruction. One 
bough of a gnarled and stunted oak-tree, which stretched across 
the road, seemed in particular to have opposed an almost fatal 
barrier to the horseman’s career. In striking his head against 
this impediment, the force of the blow had been broken in some 
measure by a high-crowned hat, yet the violence of the shock 
was sufficient to shiver the branch to pieces. Fortunately it 
was already decayed ; but, even in that state, it was subject of 
astonishment to every one that no fatal damage had been 
sustained in so formidable an encounter. Mowbray himself v/as 
unconscious of the accident. 

Scarcely aware that he had been riding at an unusual rate, 
scarce sensible that he had ridden faster perhaps than ever he 
followed the hounds, Mowbray alighted at his stable door, and 
flung the bridle to his groom, who held up his hands in astonish- 
ment when the beheld the condition of the favorite horse ; but, 
concluding that his master must be intoxicated, he prudently 
forbore to make any observations. 

No sooner did the unfortunate traveler suspend that rapid 
motion, by which he seemed to wish to annihilate, as far as 
possible, time and s’pace, in order to reach the place he had now 
attained, than it seemed to him as if he would have given the 
world that seas and deserts had lain between him and the house 


352 


ST. TONAN^S WELL. 


of his fathers, as well as that only sister with whom he was now 
about to have a decisive interview. 

“ But the place and the hour are arrived/’ he said, biting 
his lip with anguish ; “ this explanation must be decisive ; and 
whatever evils may attend it, suspense must be ended now, at 
once and for ever.” 

He entered the Castle, and took the light from the old 
domestic, who, hearing the clatter of his horse’s feet, had 
opened the door to receive him. 

“ Is my sister in her parlor } ” he asked, but in so hollow a 
voice, that the old man only answered his question by another, 
“ Was his honor well ? ” 

“ Quite well, Patrick — never better in my life,” said Mow- 
bray; and turning his back on the old man, as if to prevent his 
observing whether his countenance and his words corresponded, 
he pursued his way to his sister’s apartment. The sound of 
his step upon the passage roused Clara from a reverie, perhaps 
a sad one ; and she had trimmed her lamp, and stirred her fire, 
so slow did he walk, before he at length entered her apartment. 

“You are a good boy, brother,” she said, “to come thus 
early home ; and I have some good news for your reward. The 
groom has fetched back Trimmer — He was lying by the dead 
hare, and he had chased him as far as Drumlyford — the shepherd 
had carried him to the shieling, till some one should claim 
him.” 

“ I would he had hanged him, with all my heart ! ” said 
MowTray. 

“ How ? — hang Trimmer ? — your favorite Trimmer, that has 
beat the whole country ? — and it was only this morning you 
were half crying because he was amissing and like to murder 
man and mother’s son .? ” 

“ The better I like any living thing,” answered Mowbray, 
“ the more reason I have for wishing it dead and at rest ; for 
neither I, nor anything that I love, will ever be happy more.” 

“You cannot frighten me, John, with these flights,” an- 
swered Clara, trembling, although she endeavored to look un- 
concerned — “You have used me to them too often.” 

“ It is well for you, then ; you will be ruined without the 
shock of surprise.” 

“ So much the better — We have been,” said Clara, 

“ ‘ So constantly in poortith’s sight. 

The thoughts on’t gie us little fright.’ 

So say I with honest Robert Burns.” 

“ D — n Burns and his trash ! ” said Mowbray, with the im- 


ST. RONAN\S WELL. 


353 

patience of a man determined to be angry with everything but 
himself, who was the real source of the evil. 

“ And why damn poor Burns 1 ” said Clara composedly ; 
“it is not his fault if you have not risena winner, for that, I 
suppose, is the cause of all this uproar.” 

“ Would it not make any one lose patience,” said Mow- 
bray, “ to hear her quoting the rhapsodies of a hobnailed peas- 
ant, when a man is speaking of the downfall of an ancient 
house Your ploughman, I suppose, becoming one degree 
poorer than he was born to be, would only go without his dinner, 
or without his usual potation of ale. His comrades would cry 
‘ poor fellow ! ’ and let him eat out of their kit, and drink out of 
their bicker without scruple, till his own was full again. But 
the poor gentleman — the do wnf alien man of rank — the degraded 
man of birth — the disabled and disarmed man of power! — it is 
he that is to be pitied, who loses not merely drink and dinner, 
but honor, situation, credit, character, and name itself ! ” 

“ You are declaiming in this manner in order to terrify me,” 
said Clara ; “but, friend John, I know you and your ways, and 
I have made up my mind upon all contingencies that can take 
place. I will tell you more — I have stood on this tottering 
pinnacle of rank and fashion, if our situation can be termed such, 
till my head is dizzy with the instability of my eminence ; and I 
feel the strange desire of tossing myself down, which the devil 
is said to put into folk’s heads when they stand on the top of 
steeples — at least, I had rather the plunge were over.” 

“ Be satisfied, then ; if that will satisfy you — the plunge is 
over, and we* are — what they used to call it in Scotland — gentle 
beggars, creatures to whom our second, and third, and fourth, 
and fifth cousins may, if they please, give a place at the side- 
table, and a seat in the carriage with the lady’s-maid, if driving 
backward will not make us sick.” 

“ They may give it to those who will take it,” said Clara ; 
“but I am determined to eat bread of my own buying — I can 
do twenty things, and I am sure some one or other of them will 
bring me all the little money I will need. I have been trying, 
John, for several months, how little I can live upon, and you 
would laugh if you heard how^ low^ I have brought the account.” 

“There is a difference, Clara, between fanciful experiments 
and real poverty — the one is a masquerade, w'hich we can end 
when we please, the other is wretchedness for life.” 

“ Methinks, brother,” replied Miss Mowbray, “ it would be 
better for you to set me an example how to carry my good 
resolutions into effect, than to ridicule them.” 

“ Why, what would you have me do ? ” said he, fiercely — • 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


354 

“ turn postilion, or rough-rider, or whipper-in ? — I don’t know 
anything else that my education, as I have used it, has fitted 
me for — and then some of my old acquaintance would, I dare 
say, give me a crown to drink now and then for old acquaint- 
ance’ sake.” 

“This is not the way, John, that men of sense think or 
speak of serious misfortunes,” answered his sister ; “ and I do 
not believe that this is so serious as it is your pleasure to 
make it.” 

“ Believe the very worst you can think,” replied he, “ and 
you will not believe bad enough !— You have neither a guinea, 
nor a house, nor a friend ; — pass but a day, and it is a chance 
that you will not have a brother.” 

“ My dear John, you have drunk hard — rode hard.” 

“Yes — such tidings deserved to be carried express, 
especially to a young lady who receives them so well,” an- 
swered Mowbray bitterly. “ I suppose, now, it will make no 
impression, if I were to tell you that you have it in your power 
to stop all this ruin .? ” 

“ By consummating my own, I suppose — Brother, I said 
you could not make me tremble, but you have found a way to 
do it.” 

“ What, you expect I am again to urge you with Lord 
Etherington’s courtship ? — That might have saved all, indeed — 
But that day of grace is over.” 

“ I am glad of it, with all my spirit,” said Clara ; “may it 
take with it all that we can quarrel about ! — But till this in- 
stant, I thought it was for this very point that this long voyage 
was bound, and that you were endeavoring to persuade me of 
the reality of the danger of the storm, in order to reconcile me 
to the harbor.” 

“ You are mad, I think, in earnest,” said Mowbray ; “can 
you really be so absurd as to rejoice that you have no way left 
to relieve yourself and me from ruin, want, and shame ? ” 

“ From shame, brother ? ” said Clara. “ No shame in hon- 
est poverty, I hope.” 

“That is according as folks have used their prosperity, 
Clara. — I must speak to the point. — There are strange reports 
going below — By Heaven ! they are enough to disturb the 
ashes of the dead ! Were I to mention them, I should expect 
our poor mother to enter the room — Clara Mowbray, can you 
guess what I mean ? ” 

It was with the utmost exertion, yet in a faltering voice, 
that she was able, after an ineffectual effort, to utter the mono* 
syllable, ^ 


ST. ROA^AN'S WELL, 


355 

“ By Heaven ! I am ashamed — I am even afraid to express 
my own meaning ! — Clara, what is there which makes you so 
obstinately reject every proposal of marriage ? — Is it that you 
feel yourself unworthy to be the wife of an honest man ? — • 
Speak out ! — Evil Fame has been busy with your reputation — ■ 
speak out I — Give me the right to cram their lies down the 
throats of the inventors, and when I go among them to-mor- 
row, I shall know how to treat those who cast reflections on 
you ! The fortunes of our house are ruined, but no tongue 
shall slander its honor. — Speak — speak, wretched girl ! why 
are you silent ? ” 

“ Stay at home, brother,” said Clara ; “ stay at home, if 
you regard our house’s honor — murder cannot mend miser}^ — 
Stay at home, and let them talk of me as they will — they can 
scarcely say worse of me than 1 deserve ! ” 

The passions of Mowbray, at all limes ungovernably strong, 
were at present inflamed by wine, by his rapid journey, and the 
previously disturbed state of his mind. He set his teeth, 
clenched his hands, looked on the ground, as one that forms 
some horrid resolution, and muttered almost unintelligibly, “It 
were charity to kill her.” 

“ Oh ! no — no — no ! ” exclaimed the terrified girl, throwing 
herself at his feet ; “do not kill me, brother ! I have wished 
for death — thought of death — prayed for death — but, oh ! it is 
frightful to think that he is near — Oh ! not a bloody death, 
brother, nor by your hand ! ” 

She held him close by the knees as she spoke, and expressed 
in her looks and accents the utmost terror. It was not, indeed, 
without reason ; for the extreme solitude of the place, the violent 
and inflamed passions of her brother, and the desperate circum- 
stances to which he had reduced himself, seemed all to concur 
to render some horrid act of violence not an improbable termi- 
nation of this strange interview. 

Mowbray folded his arms, without unclenching his hands, 
or raising his head, while his sister continued on the floor, 
clasping him round the knees with all her strength, and begging 
piteously for her life and for mercy. 

“ Fool ! ” he said at last, “ let me go ! — Who cares for thy 
worthless life i* — who cares if thou live or die ? Live, if thou 
canst — and be the hate and scorn of every one else, as much 
as thou art mine ! ” 

He grasped her by the shoulder, with one hand pushed her 
from him, and as she arose from the floor, and again pressed 
to throw her arms around his neck, he repulsed her with his 
arm and hand, with a push — or blow — it might be termed either 

A 


Sr. ROMAN'S WELL. 


356 

one or the other — violent enough, in her weak state, to have 
again extended her on the ground, had not a chair received her 
as she fell. He looked at her with ferocity, grappled a moment 
in his pocket ; then ran to the window, and throwing the sash 
violently up, thrust himself as far as he could without falling 
into the open air. Terrified, and yet her feelings of his unkind- 
ness predominating even above her fears, Clara continued to 
exclaim. 

“Oh, brother, say you did not mean this ! — Oh, say you did 
not mean to strike me ! — Oh, whatever I have deserved, be not 
you the executioner! — It is not manly — it is not natural — there 
are but two of us in the world ! ” 

He returned no answer; and, observing that he continued 
to stretch himself from the window, which was in the second 
storey of the building, and overlooked the court, a new cause 
of apprehension mingled, in some measure, with her personal 
fears. Timidly, and with streaming eyes and uplifted hands, 
she approached her angry brother, and fearfully yet firmly seized 
the skirt of his coat, as if anxious to preserve him from the 
effects of that despair, which so lately seemed turned against 
her, and now against himself. 

He felt the pressure of her hold, and drawing himself angrily 
back, asked her sternly what she wanted. 

“ Nothing,” she said, quitting her hold of his coat ; “ but 
what — what did he look after so anxiously 1 ” 

“After the devil I ” he answered, fiercely ; then drawing in 
his head, and taking her hand, “ By my soul, Clara — it is true, 
if ever there was truth in such a tale ! — He stood by me just 
now, and urged me to murder thee ! — What else could have put 
my hunting-knife into my thought ? — Ay, by God, and into my 
very hand — at such a moment ? — Yonder I could almost fancy 
I see him the wood, and the rock, and the water, gleaming 
back the dark-red furnace-light, that is shed on them by his 
dragon wings ! By my soul, I can hardly suppose it fancy ! — 

I can hardly think but that I was under the influence of an 
evil spirit — under an act of fiendish possession ! But gone as 
he is, gone let him be — and thoyi, too ready implement of evil, 
be thou gone after him I ” He drew from his pocket his right 
hand, which had all this time held his hunting-knife, and threw 
the implement into the courtyard as he spoke ; then, with a 
mournful quietness and solemnity of manner, shut the window, 
and led his sister by the hand to her usual seat, which her 
tottering steps scarce enabled her to reach. “ Clara,” he said, 
after a pause of mournful silence, “we must think what is to 
be done, without passion or violence — there may be something 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


357 

for us in the dice yet, if we do not throw away our game. ' A 
•blot is never a blot till it is hit — dishonor concealed is not dis- 
honor in some respects. — Dost thou attend to me, wretched 
girl ? ” he said, suddenly and sternly raising his voice. 

“Yes, brother — yes indeed, brother,” she hastily replied, 
terrified even by delay again to awaken his ferocious and un- 
governable temper. 

“Thus it must be then,” he said, “You must marry this 
Etherington — there is no help for it, Clara — You cannot 
complain of what your own vice and follv have rendered in- 
evitable.” 

“ But, brother ” — said the trembling girl. 

“ Be silent. I know all that you would say. You love him 
not, you would say. I love him not, no more than you. Nay, 
what is more, he loves you not — if he did, I might scruple to 
give you to him, you being such as you have owned yourself. 
But you shall wed him out of hate, tiara — or for the interest 
of your family — or for what reason you will — But wed him 
you shall and must.” 

“ Brother — dearest brother — one single word ! ” 

“ Not of refusal or expostulation — that time is gone by,” said 
her brother. “ When I believed thee what I thought thee this 
morning, I might advise you, but I could not compel. But 
since the honor of our family has been disgraced by your means, 
it is but just, that, if possible, its disgrace should be hidden ; 
and it shall, — ay, if selling you for a slave would tend to con- 
ceal it ! ” 

“ You do worse — you dd worse by me ! — A slave in an open 
market may be bought by a kind master — you do not give me 
that chance — you wed me to one who ” 

“ Fear him not, nor the worst that he can do, Clara,” said 
her brother. “I know on what terms he marries ; and, being 
once more your brother, as your obedience in this matter will 
make me, he had better tear his flesh from his bones with his 
own teeth, than do thee any displeasure ! By Heaven, I hate 
him so much — for he has outreached me every way — that me- 
thinks it is some consolation that he will not receive in thee the 
excellent creature I thought thee ! — Fallen as thou art, thou 
art still too good for him.” 

Encouraged by the more gentle and almost affectionate tone 
in which her brother spoke, Clara could not help saying, although 
almost in a whisper, “ I trust it will not be so — I trust he will 
consider his own condition, honor, and happiness, better than 
to share it with me.” 

“ Let him utter such a scruple if he dares,” said Mowbray—* 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


358 

“But he dares not hesitate — he knows that the instant he 
recedes from addressing you, he signs his own death-warrant or 
mine, or perhaps that of both ; and his views, too, are of a kind 
that will not be relinquished on a point of scrupulous delicacy 
merely. Therefore, Clara, nourish no such thought in your 
heart as that there is the least possibility of your escaping such 
a marriage ! — The match is booked — Swear you will not 
hesitate.” 

“ I will not,” she said, almost breathlessly, terrified lest he 
was about to start once more into the fit of unbridled fury which 
had before seized on him. 

“ Do not even whisper or hint an objection, but submit to 
your fate, for it is inevitable.” 

“ I will — submit ” — answered Clara, in the same trembling 
accent. 

“ And I,” he said, “ will spare you — at least at present — and 
it may be forever — all inquiry into the guilt which you have 
confessed. Rumors there were of misconduct, which reached 
my ears even in England ; but who could have believed them 
that looked on you daily, and witnessed your late course of life ? 
— On this subject I will be at present silent — perhaps may not 
again touch on it — that is, if you do nothing to thwart my 
pleasure, or to avoid the fate which circumstances render un- 
avoidable. — And now it is late — retire, Clara, to your bed — 
think on what I have said as what necessity has determined, 
and not my selfish pleasure.” 

He held out his hand, and she placed, but not without re- 
luctant terror, her trembling palm in his. In this manner, and 
with a sort of mournful solemnity, as if they had been in at- 
tendance upon a funeral, he handed his sister through a gallery 
hung with old family pictures, at the end of which was Clara’s 
bed-chamber. The moon, which at this moment looked out 
through a huge volume of mustering clouds that had long been 
boding storm, fell on the two last descendants of that ancient 
family, as they glided hand in hand, more like the ghosts of the 
deceased than like living persons, through the hall and amongst 
the portraits of their forefathers. The same thoughts were in 
the breasts of both, but neither attempted to say, while they 
cast a flitting glance on the pallid and decayed representations, 
“How little did these anticipate this catastrophe of their 
house ! ” At the door of the bedroom Mowbray quitted his sister’s 
hand, and said, “ Clara, you should to-night thank God, that 
saved you from a great danger, and me from a deadly sin.” 

“ I will,” she answered — “ I will.” And, as if her terror had 
been anew excited by this allusion to what had passed, she bid 


^7: jROiVAN'S WELL. 


359 

her brother hastily good-night, and was no sooner within her 
apartment, than he heard her turn the key in the lock, and draw 
two bolts besides. 

“ I understand you, Clara,” muttered Mowbray between his 
teeth, as he heard one bar drawn after another. “ But if you 
could earth yourself under Ben Nevis, you could not escape 
what fate has destined for you. — Yes ! ” he said to himself, as he 
walked with slow and moody pace through the moonlit gallery, 
uncertain whether to return to the parlor, or to retire to his 
solitary chamber, when his attention was roused by a noise in 
the courtyard. 

The night was not indeed far advanced, but it had been so 
long since Shaws Castle received a guest, that, had Mowbray 
not heard the rolling of wheels in the courtyard, he might have 
thought rather of housebreakers than of visitors. But, as the 
sound of a carriage and horses was distinctly heard, it instant- 
ly occurred to him, that the guest must be Lord Elherington, 
come, even at this late hour, to speak with him on the reports 
which were current to his sister’s prejudice, and perhaps to 
declare his addresses to her were at an end. Eager to know 
the worst, and to bring matters to a decision, he re-entered the 
apartment he had just left, where the lights were still burning, 
and, calling loudly to Patrick, whom he heard in communing 
with the postilion, commanded him to show the visitor to Miss 
Mowbray’s parlor. It was not the light step of the young 
nobleman which came tramping, or rather stamping, through 
the long passage, and up the two or three steps at the end of 
it. Neither was it Lord Etherington’s graceful figure which 
was seen when the door opened, but the stout square substance 
of Mr. Peregrine Touchwood. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH. 

A RELATIVE. 

Claim’d kindred there, and had his claim allow’d. 

Deserted Village. 

Starting at the unexpected and undesired apparition which 
presented itself in the manner described at the end of the last 
chapter, Mowbray yet felt, at the same time, a kind of relief 
that his meeting with Lord Etherington, painfully decisive as 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


360 

that meeting must be, was for a time suspended. So it was with 
a mixture of peevishness and internal satisfaction that he de- 
manded what had procured him the honor of a visit from Mr. 
Touchwood at this late hour. 

“ Necessity that makes the old wife trot,” replied Touch- 
wood ; “ no choice of mine, I assure you — Gad, Mr. Mowbray, 
I would rather have crossed Saint Gothard than run the risk I 
have done to-night, rumbling through your breakneck roads in 
that d — d old wheelbarrow. On my word, I believe I must be 
troublesome to your butler for a draught of something — I am 
as thirsty as a coal-heaver that is working by the piece. You 
have porter, I suppose, or good old Scotch twopenny ? ” 

With a secret execration on his visitor’s effrontery, Mr. 
Mowbray ordered the servant to put down wine and water, of 
which Touchwood mixed a gobletful, and drank it off. 

“ We are a small family,” said his entertainer; “ and I am 
seldom at home — still more seldom receive guests when I 
chance to be here — I am sorry I have no malt liquor, if 
you prefer it.” 

“ Prefer it ? ” said Touchwood, compounding, however, an- 
other glass of sherry and water, and adding a large piece of 
sugar, to correct the hoarseness which, he observed, his night 
journey might bring on, — “ to be sure I prefer it, and so does 
everybody, except Frenchmen and dandies. No offence, Mr. 
Mowbray, but you should order a hogshead from Meux — the 
brown-stout, wired down for exportation to the colonies, keeps 
for any length of time, and in every climate — I have drunk it 
where it must have cost a guinea a quart, if interest had been 
counted.” 

“ When I expect the honor of a visit from you, Mr. Touch- 
wood, I will endeavor to be better provided,” answered Mow- 
bray ; “ at present your arrival »^as been without notice, and I 
would be glad to know if it has any particular object.” 

“ This is what I call coming to the jDoint,” said Mr. Touch- 
wood, thrusting out his stout legs, accoutred as they were with 
the ancient defences, called boot-hose, so as to rest his heels 
upon the fender. “ Upon my life, the fire turns the best 
flower in the garden at this season of the year — I’ll take the 
freedom to throw on a log.— Is it not a strange thing, by the 
by, that one never sees a fagot in Scotland ? You have much 
small wood, Mr. Mowbray, I wonder you do not get some fel- 
low from the midland counties to teach your people how to 
make a fagot.” 

“ Did you come all the way to Shaws Castle,” asked Mow- 


ST. TOA'AA^’S WELL. 361 

bray, rather testily, “ to instruct me in the mystery of fagot- 
making ? ” 

“Not exactly — not exactly,” answered the undaunted 
Touchwood ; “ but there is a right and a wrong way in every- 
thing — a word by the way, on any useful subject, can never fall 
amiss. — As for my immediate and more pressing business, I 
can assure you that it is of a nature sufficiently urgent, since it 
brings me to a house in which I am much surprised to find 
myself.”- 

“ The surprise is mutual, sir,” said Mowbray, gravely, ob- 
serving that fiis guest made a pause ; “ it is full time you should 
explain it.” 

“ Well, then,” replied Touchwood, “ I must first ask you 
whether you have never heard of a certain old gentleman called 
Scrogie, who took it into what he called his head, poor man, to 
be ashamed of the name he bore, though owned by many honest 
and respectable men, and chose to join it to your surname of 
Mowbray, as having a more chivalrous Norman sounding, and, 
in a word, a gentleman-like twang with it ? ” 

“ I have heard of such a person, though only lately,” said 
Mowbray. “ Reginald Scrogie Mowbray was his name. I 
have reason to consider his alliance with my family as undoubt- 
ed, though you seem to mention it with a sneer, sir. I believe 
Mr. S. Mowbray regulated his family settlements very much 
upon the idea that his heir w^as to intermarry with our house.” 

“ True, true, Mr. Mowbray,” answered Touchwood ; “ and 
certainly it is not your business to lay the axe to the root of 
the genealogical true, that is like to bear golden apples for you 
—•Ha ! ” 

“ Well, well, sir — proceed — proceed,” answered Mowbray. 

“ You may also have heard that this old gentleman had a 
son, who would willingly have cut up the said family tree into 
fagots ; who thought Scrogie sounded as w^ell as Mow'bray, and 
had no fancy for an imaginary gentility which w^as to be at- 
tained by the change of one’s natural name, and the disowming, 
so it were, of one’s actual relations ? ” 

“ I think I have heard from Lord Etherington,” answ^ered 
Mow'bray, “ to whose communications I owe most of my knowl- 
edge about these Scrogie people, that old Mr. Scrogie Mow- 
bray was unfortunate in a son, who thwarted his father on 
every occasion, — would embrace no opportunity which fortu- 
nate chances held out, of raising and distinguishing the family, 
— had imbibed low tastes, wandering habits, and singular ob- 
jects of pursuit, — on account of which his father disinherited 
him.” 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


362 

“ It: is very true, Mr. Mowbray,” proceeded Touchwood, 
“ that this person did happen to fall under his father’s dis- 
pleasure, because he scorned forms and flummery, — loved 
better to make money as an honest merchant, than to throw it 
away as an idle gentleman, — never called a coach when walk- 
ing on foot would serve the turn, — and liked the Royal Ex- 
change better than St. James’s Park. In short, his father dis- 
inherited him, because he had the qualities for doubling the 
estate, rather than those for squandering it.” 

“ All this may be quite correct, Mr. Touchwood,” replied 
Mowbray ; “ but, pray, what has this Mr. Scrogie junior to do 
with you or me ? ” 

“ Do with you or me ! ” said Touchwood, as if surprised at 
the question ; “ he has a great deal to do with me at least, 
since I am the very man myself.” 

“ The devil you are,” said Mowbray, opening wide his eyes 
in turn ; “ Mr. A — a — your name is Touchwood — P. Touch- 
wood — Paul, I suppose, or Peter — I read it so in the subscrip- 
tion book at the Well.” 

“ Peregrine, sir. Peregrine — my mother would have me so 
christened, because Peregrine Pickle came out during her con- 
finement ; and my poor foolish father acquiesced, because he 
thought it genteel, and derived from the Willoughbies. I don’t 
like it, and I always write P. short, and you might have re- 
marked an S. also before the surname — I use at present P. S. 
Touchwood. I had an old acquaintance in the city who loved 
his jest — he always called me Postscript Touchwood.” 

“ Then, sir,” said Mowbray, “ if you are really Mr. Scro- 
gie, tout court,^ I must suppose the name of Touchwood is 
assumed ? ” 

“ What the devil ! ” replied Mr. P. S. Touchwood, “ do you 
suppose there is no name in the English nation will couple up 
legitimately with my paternal name of Scrogie, except your 
own, Mr. Alowbray .? — I assure you I got the name of Touch- 
wood, and a pretty spell of money along with it, from an old 
godfather, who admired my spirit in sticking by commerce.” 

“ Well, sir, every one has his taste — many would have 
thought it better to enjoy a hereditary estate, by keeping your 
father’s name of Mowbray, than to have gained another by 
assuming a stranger’s name of Touchwood.” 

“ Who told you Mr. Touchwood was a stranger to me ” 
said the traveler ; “ for aught I know, he had a better title to the 
duties of a son from me, that the poor old man who made 
such a fool of himself, by trying to turn gentleman in his old 
age. He was my grandfather’s partner in the great firm of 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


363 

* Touchwood, Scrogie, and Co. — Let me tell you, there is as 
good inheritance in house as in field — a man’s partners are his 
fathers and brothers, and a head clerk may be likened to a kind 
of first cousin.” 

“ I meant no offence whatever, Mr. Touchwood Scrogie.” 

“ Scrogie Touchwood, if you please,” said the senior ; “ the 
scrog branch first, for it must become rotten ere it become 
Touchwood — ha, ha, ha ! — you take me.” 

“ A singular old fellow this,” said Mowbray to himself, “ and 
speaks in all the dignity of dollars ; but I will be civil to him, 
till I can see what he is driving at. — You are facetious, Mr. 
Touchwood,” he proceeded aloud. “I was only going to say, 
that although you set no value upon your connection with my 
family, yet I cannot forget that such a circumstance exists ; 
and therefore I bid you heartily welcome to Shaws Castle.” 

“Thank ye, thank ye, Mr. Mowbray — I knew you would see 
the thing right. To tell you the truth, I should not have cared 
much to come a-begging for your acquaintance and cousinship, 
and so forth ; but that I thought you would be more tractable 
in your adversity, than was your father in his prosperity.” 

“ Did you know my father, sir } ” said Mowbray. 

“ Ay, ay — I came once down here, and was introduced to 
him — saw your sister and you when you were children — had 
thoughts of making my will then, and should have clapped you 
both in before I set out to double Cape Horn ! But, gad, I 
wish my poor father had seen the reception I got ! I did not 
let the old gentleman, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s that was 
then, smoke my money-bags — that might have made him more 
tractable — not but that we went on indifferent well for a day 
or two, till I got a hint that my room was wanted, for that the 
Duke of Devil-knows-what was expected, and my bed was to 
serve his valet-de-chambre. — ‘ Oh, damn all gentle cousins ! ’ 
said I, and off I set on the pad round the world again, and 
thought no more of the Mowbrays till a year or so ago.” 

“ And pray, what recalled us to your recollection ? ” 

“ Why,” said Touchwood, “ I w’as settled for some time at 
Smyrna (for I turn the penny go where I will— I have done a 
little business even since I came here) ; but being at Smyrna, 
as I said, I became acquainted with Francis Tyrrel.” 

“ The natural brother of Lord Etherington,” said Mowbray. 

“ Ay, so called,” answered Touchwood ; “but by and by he 
is more likely to prove the Earl of Etherington himself, and 
t’other fine fellow the bastard.” 

“ The devil he is ! — You surprise me, Mr. Touchwood.” 

I thought I should — I thought I should — Faith, I am 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


364 

sometimes surprised myself at the turn things takes in this 
world. But the thing is not the less certain — the proofs are 
lying in the strong chest of our house at London, deposited 
there by the old Earl, who repented of his roguery to Miss 
Martigny long before he died, but had not courage enough to 
do his legitimate son justice till the sexton had housed him.” 

“ Good Heaven, sir ! ” said Mowbray ; “ and did you know 
all this while, that I was about to bestow the only sister of my 
house upon an impostor ? ” 

“ What was my business with that, Mr. Mowbray ? ” replied 
Touchwood ; “ you would have been very angry had any one 
suspected you of not being sharp enough to look out for your- 
self and your sister both. Besides, Lord Etherington, bad 
enough as he may be in other respects, was, till very lately, no 
impostor, or an innocent one, for he only occupied the situation 
in which his father had placed him. And, indeed, when I 
understood, upon coming to England, that he was gone down 
here, and, as I conjectured, to pay his addresses to your sister, 
to say truth, I did not see he could do better. Here was a 
poor fellow that was about to cease to be a lord and a wealthy 
man ; was it not very reasonable that he should make the most 
of dignity while he had it ? and if, by marrying a pretty girl 
while in possession of his title, he could get possession of the 
good estate of Nettlewood, why, I could see nothing in it but a 
very pretty way of breaking his fall.” 

“Very pretty for him, indeed, and very convenient too,” said 
Mowbray ; “ but pray, sir, what was to become of the honor of 
my family ? ” 

“ Why, what was the honor of your family to me ? ” said 
Touchwood ; “ unless it was to recommend your family to my 
care that I was disinherited on account of it. And if this 
Etherington, or Bulmer, had been a good fellow, I would have 
seen all the Mowbrays that ever wore broad cloth, at Jericho, 
before I had interfered.” 

“ I am really much indebted to your kindness,” said Mow- 
bray, angrily. 

“ More than you are aware of,” answered Touchwood ; “for 
though I thought this Bulmer, even when declared illegitimate, 
might be a reasonable good match for your sister, considering, 
the estate which was to accompany the union of their hands ; 
yet, now I have discovered him to be a scoundrel — every way a 
scoundrel — I would not wish any decent girl to marry him, 
were they to get all Yorkshire, instead of Nettlewood. So I 
have come to put you right.” 

The strangeness of the news which Touchwood so bluntly 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


365 

communicated, made Mowbray’s head turn round like that of a 
man who grows dizzy at finding himself on the verge of a preci- 
pice. Touchwood observed his consternation, which he will- 
ingly construed into an acknowledgment of his own brilliant 
genius. 

“ Take a glass of wine Mr. Mowbray,” he said, complacently ; 
“ take a glass of old sherry — nothing like it for clearing the 
ideas— and do not be afraid of me, though I come thus sud- 
denly upon you, with such surprising tidings — you will find me 
a plain, simple, ordinary man, that have my faults and my 
blunders, like other people. I acknowledge that much travel 
and experience have made me sometimes play the busybody, 
because I find I can do things better than other people, and I 
love to see folk stare — it’s a way I have got. But, after all, I 
am un bo?i diable, ?is the Frenchman says; and here I have 
come four or five hundred miles to lie quiet among you all, and 
put all your little matters to rights, just when you think they are 
most desperate.” 

“ I thank you for your kind intentions,” said Mowbray ; 
“ but I must needs say that they would have been more effectual 
had you been less cunning in my behalf, and frankly told me 
what you knew of Lord Etherington ; as it is, the matter has 
gone fearfully far. I have promised him my sister — I have 
laid myself under personal obligations to him — and there are 
other reasons why I fear I must keep my word to this man, 
earl or no earl.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Touchwood, “ would you give up your 
sister to a worthless rascal, who is capable of robbing the post- 
office, and of murdering his brother, because you have lost a 
trifle of money to him t Are you to let him go off trium- 
phantly because he is a gamester as well as a cheat } — You are a 
pretty fellow, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s — you are one of the 
happy sheep that go out for wool, and come home shorn. Egad, 
you think yourself a millstone, and turn out a sack of grain — ■ 
You flew abroad a hawk, and have come home a pigeon — You 
snarled at the Philistines, and they have drawn your eye-teeth 
with a vengeance ! ” 

“ This is all very witty, Mr. Touchwood,” replied Mowbray ; 
but wit will not pay this man Etherington, or whatever he is, 
so many hundreds as I have lost to him.” 

Why, then, wealth must do what wit cannot,” said old 
Touchwood { I must advance for you, that is all. Look ye, 
sir, I do not go ^foot for nothing — if I have labored, I have 
reaped — and, like the fellow in the old play, ‘ I have enough, 
and can maintain my humor ’—it is not a few hundreds or thou* 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


366 

sands either can stand betwixt old P. S. Touchwood and his 
purpose ; and my present purpose is to make you, Mr. Mowbray 
of St. Ronan’s, a free man of the forest. You still look grave 
on it, young man ? — Why, I trust you are not such an ass as 
to think your dignity offended, because the plebeian Scrogie 
comes to the assistance of the terribly great and old house of 
Mowbray ? ” 

“ I am indeed not such a fool,” answered Mowbray, with his 
eyes still bent on the ground, “ to reject assistance that comes 
to me like a rope to a drowning man — but there is a circum- 
stance” he stopped short and drank a glass .of wine — “ a 

circumstance to which it is most painful to me to allude — but you 
seem my friend — and I cannot intimate to you more strongly 
my belief in your professions of regard that by saying, that the 
language held by Lady Penelope Penfeather on my sister’s ac- 
count, renders it highly proper that she were settled in life ; and I 
cannot but fear, that the breaking off the affair with this man 
might be of great prejudice to her at this moment. They will 
have Nettle wood, and they may live separate — he has offered 
to make settlements to that effect, even on the very day of mar- 
riage. Her condition as a married woman will put her above 
scandal, and above necessity, from which, ’I am sorry to say, I 
cannot hope long to preserve her.” 

“ For shame ! — for shame ! — for shame ! ” said Touchwood, 
accumulating his words thicker than usual on each other ; 
“ would you sell your own flesh and blood to a man like this 
Buhner, whose character is now laid before you, merely because 
a disappointed old maid speaks scandal of her "i A fine ven- 
eration you pay to the honored name of Mowbray ! If my poor, 
old, simple father had known what the owners of these two 
grand syllables could have stooped to do for merely ensuring 
subsistence, he would have thought as little of the noble Mow- 
brays as of the humble Scrogies. And, I dare say, the young 
lady is just such another — eager to get married — no matter to 
whom.” 

“ Excuse me, Mr.Touchwood,” answered Mowbray ; “ my 
sister entertains sentiments so very different from what you 
ascribe to her, that she and I parted on the most unpleasant 
terms, in consequence of my pressing this man’s suit upon her. 
God knows, that I only did so, because I saw no other outlet 
from this most unpleasant dilemma. But, since you are willing 
to interfere, sir, and aid me to disentangle these complicated 
matters, which have, I own, been made worse by my own rash- 
ness, I am ready to throw the matter completely into your 
hands, just as if you were my father arisen from the dead. 


ST. TONAN\S WELL. 


367 

Nevertheless, I must needs express my surprise at the extent of 
your intelligence in these affairs.” 

“ You speak very sensibly, young man,” said the traveler ; 
“ and as for my intelligence, I have for some time known the 
finesses of this Master Buhner as perfectly as if 1 had been at 
his elbow when he was playing all his dog’s tricks with this 
family. You would hardly suspect now,” he continued, in a 
confidential tone, “ that what you were so desirous a while ago 
should take place, has in some sense actually happened, and 
that the marriage ceremony has really passed betwixt your 
sister and this pretended Lord Etherington ? ” 

“ Have a care, sir ! ” said Mowbray fiercely ; “do not abuse 
my candor — this is ro place, time, or subject for impertinent 
jesting.” 

“ As I live by bread, I am serious,” said Touchwood ; “ Mr. 
Cargill performed the ceremony ; and there are two living 
witnesses who heard them say the words, ‘ I, Clara, take you, 
Francis,’ or whatever the Scottish church puts in place of that 
mystical formula.” 

“ It is impossible,” said Mowbray ; “ Cargill dared not have 
done such a thing — a clandestine proceeding, such as you speak 
of, would have cost him his living. I’ll bet my soul against a 
horse-shoe, it is all an imposition ; and you come to disturb me, 
sir, amid my family distress, with legends that have no more 
truth in them than the Alkoran.” 

“ There are some true things in the Alkoran (or rather the 
Koran, for the A1 is merely the article prefixed), but let that 
pass — I will raise your wonder higher before I am done. It is 
very true, that your sister was indeed joined in marriage with 
this same Bulmer, that calls himself by the title of Etherington ; 
but it is just as true, that the marriage is not worth a maravedi, 
for she believed him at the time to be another person — to be, 
in a word, Francis Tyrrel who is actually what the other 
pretends to be, a nobleman of fortune.” 

“ I cannot understand one word of all this,” said Mowbray. 
“ I must to my sister instantly, and demand of her if there be 
any real foundation for these wonderful averments.” 

“ Do not go,” said Touchwood, detaining him, “ you snail 
have a full explanation from me ; and to comfort you under 
your perplexity, I can assure you that Cargill’s consent to 
celebrate the nuptials was only obtained by an aspersion thrown 
on your sister’s character, which induced him to believe that 
speedy marriage would be the sole means of saving her repu- 
tation ; and I am convinced in my own mind it is only the 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


368 

revival of this report which has furnished the foundation of 
Lady Penelope’s chattering.” 

“ If I could think so,” — said Mowbray, “ if I could but 
think this is truth — and it seems to explain in some degree, 
my sister’s mysterious conduct — if I could but think it true, I 
should fall down and worship you as an angel from heaven ! ” 

“ A proper sort of angel,” said Touchwood, looking modestly 
down on his short, sturdy supporters — “ Did you ever hear of 
an angel in boot-hose ? Or, do you suppose angels are sent to 
wait on broken-down horse-jockeys ? ” 

“ Call me what you will, Mr. Touchwood,” said the young 
man ; “ only make out your story true, and my sister inno- 
cent ! ” 

“ Very well spoken, sir,” answered the senior, “ very well 
spoken ! But then I understand you are to be guided by my 
prudence and experience ? None of your G — damme doings, 
sir — your duels or your drubbings. Let me manage the affair 
for you, and I will bring you through with a flowing sail.” 

“ Sir, I must feel as a gentleman,” said Mowbray. 

“ Feel as a fool,” said Touchwood, “ for that is the true case. 
Nothing would pleases this Bulmer better than to fight through 
his rogueries — he knows very well, that he who can slit a pistol- 
ball on the edge of a penknife will always preserve some sort 
of reputation amidst his scoundrelism — but I shall take care to 
stop that hole. Sit down — be a man of sense, and listen to the 
whole of this strange story.” 

Mowbray sat down accordingly ; and Touchwood, in his own 
way, and with many characteristic interjectional remarks, gave 
him an account of the early loves of Clara and Tyrrel — of the 
reasons which induced Bulmer at first to encourage their cor- 
respondence, in hopes that his brother would, by a clandestine 
marriage, altogether ruin himself with his father — of the change 
which took place in his views when he perceived the importance 
annexed by the old Earl to the union of Miss Mowbray with 
his apparent heir — of the desperate stratagem which he endeav- 
ored to play off, by substituting himself in the room of his 
brother — and all the consequences, which it is unnecessary to 
resume here, as they are detailed at length by the perpetrator 
himself, in his correspondence with Captain Jekyl. 

When the whole communication was ended, Mowbray, almost 
stupefied by the wonders he had heard, remained for some time 
in a sort of reverie, from which he only started to ask what 
evidence could be produced of a story so strange. 

“ The evidence,” answered Touchwood, “ of one who was a 
deep agent in all these matters, from first to last — as complete 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


369 

a rogue, I believe, as the devil himself, with this difference 
that our mortal fiend does not, I believe, do evil for the sake 
of evil, but for the sake of the profit which attends it. How 
far this jMea will avail him in a court of conscience, I cannot 
tell ; but his disposition was so far akin to humanity, that 
I have always found my old acquaintance as ready to do 
good as harm, providing he had the same agio upon the trans- 
action.” 

“ On my soul,” said Mowbray, “ you must mean Solmes ! 
whom I have long suspected to be a deep villain — and now he 
proves traitor to boot. How the devil could you get into his 
intimacy, Mr. Touchwood } ” 

“ The case was particular,” said Touchwood. “ Mr. Solmes, 
too active a member of the community to be satisfied with 
managing the affairs which his master entrusted to him, 
adventured in a little business on his own account ; and think- 
ing, I suppose, that the late Earl of Etherington had forgotten 
fully to acknowledge his services, as valet to his son, he supplied 
that defect by a small check on our house for ;^ioo, in name, 
and bearing the apparent signature, of the deceased. This 
small mistake being detected, Mr. Solmes, porteiir of the little 
billet, would have been consigned to the custody of a Bow Street 
officer, but that I found means to relieve him, on condition of 
his making known to me the points of private history which I 
have just been communicating to you. What I had known of 
Tyrrel at Smyrna had given me much interest in him, and you 
may guess it was not lessened by the distresses which he had 
sustained through his brother’s treachery. By this fellow’s 
means, I have counterplotted all his master’s fine schemes. 
For example, as soon as I learned Buhner was coming down 
here, I contrived to give Tyrrel an anonymous hint, well 
knowing he would set off like the devil to thwart him, and so 
I should have the whole dramatis personre together, and play 
them all off against each other, after my own pleasure.” 

“ In that case,” said Mr. Mowbray, “ your expedient brought 
about the rencontre between the two brothers, when both 
might have fallen.” 

“Can’t deny it — can’t deny it,” answered Scrogie, a little 
discountenanced — “ a mere accident — no one can guard every 
point. — Egad, but I had like to have been baffled again, for 
Bulmer sent the lad Jekyl, who is not such a black sheep 
neither but what there are some white hairs about him, upon a 
treaty with Tyrrel, that my secret agent was not admitted to. 
Gad, but I discovered the whole — you will scarce guess how.” 

“ Probably not easily, indeed, sir,” answered Mowbray ; “ for 


370 


ST, RONAN^S WELL. 


your sources of intelligence are not the most obvious, any more 
than your mode of acting the most simple or most com- 
prehensible.’^ 

“ I would not have it so,” said Touchwood ; “ simple men 
perish in their simplicity — I carry my eye-teeth about me. — 
And for my source of information — why, I played the eaves- 
dropper, sir — listened — knew my landlady’s cupboard with the 
double door — got into it as she has done many a time. — Such 
a fine gentleman as you would rather cut a man’s throat, I 
suppose, than listen at a cupboard door, though the object were 
to prevent murder.” 

“ I cannot say I should have thought of the expedient, 
certainly, sir,” said Mowbray. 

“ I did though,” said Scrogie, “ and learned enough of what 
was going on, to- give Jekyl a hint that sickened him of his 
commission, I believe — so the game is all in my own hands 
Bulmer has no one to trust to but Solnies, and Solmes tells me. 
everything.” 

Here Mowbray could not suppress a movement of impa- 
tienc 

“ I wish to God, sir, that since you were so kind as to in- 
terest yourself in affairs so intimately concerning my family, 
you had been pleased to act with a little more openness tow- 
ard me. Here have I been for weeks the intimate of a damned 
scoundrel, whose throat I ought to have cut for his scandalous 
conduct to my sister. Here have I been rendering her and 
myself miserable, and getting myself cheated every night by a 
swindler, whom you, if it had been your pleasure, could have un- 
masked by a single word. I do all justice to your intentions, 
sir ; but, upon my soul, 1 cannot help wishing you had conduct- 
ed yourself with more frankness and less mystery ; and 1 am 
truly afraid your love of dexterity has been too much for your 
ingenuity, and that you have suffered matters to run into such 
a skein of confusion, as you yourself will find difficulty in un- 
raveling.” 

Touchwood smiled, and shook his head in all the conscious 
pride of superior understanding. “ Young man,” he said, 
“ when you have seen a little of the world, and especially be- 
yond the bounds of this narrow island, you will find much 
more art and dexterity necessary in conducting these busi- 
nesses to an issue, than occurs to a blind John Bull, or a raw 
Scottishman. You will be then no stranger to the policy of 
life, which deals in mining and countermining, — now in making 
feints, now in thrusting with forthright passes. I looked upon 
you, Mr. Mowbray, as a young man spoiled by staying at home, 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


371 

and keeping bad company ; and will make it my business, if 
you submit yourself to my guidance, to inform your understand- 
ing, so as to retrieve your estate. — Don’t — don’t answer me, 
sir ! because I know too well, by experience, how young men 
answer on these subjects — they are conceited, sir, as conceited 
as if they had been in all the four quarters of the world. I hate 
to be answered, sir, I hate it. And, to tell you the truth, it is 
because Tyrrel has a fancy of answering me, that I rather 
make you my confidant on this occasion, than him. I would 
have had him throw himself into my arms, and under my 
directions ; but he hesitated — he hesitated, Mr. Mowbray — and 
I despise hesitation. If he thinks he has wit enough to manage 
his own matters, let him try it — let him try it. Not but I will 
do all that I can for him in fitting time and place ; but I will 
let him dwell in his perplexities and uncertainties for a little 
while longer. And so, Mr. Mowbray, you see what sort of an 
odd fellow I am, and you can satisfy me at once whether you 
mean to come into my measures — only speak out at once, sir, 
for I abhor hesitation.” 

While Touchwood thus spoke, Mowbray was forming his 
resolution internally. He was not so inexperienced as the 
senior supposed ; at least, he could plainly see that he had to 
do with an obstinate, capricious old man, who, with the best 
intentions in the world, chose to have everything in his own 
way ; and, like most petty politicians, was disposed to throw 
intrigue and mystery over matters which had much better be 
prosecuted boldly and openly. But he perceived, at the same 
time, that Touchwood, as a sort of relation, wealthy, childless, 
and disposed to become his friend*, was a person to be con- 
ciliated, the rather that the traveler himself had frankly owned 
that it was Francis Tyrrel’s want of deference toward him, 
which had forfeited, or at least abated, his favor. Mowbray 
recollected, also, that the circumstances under which he him- 
self stood did not permit him to trifle with returning gleams of 
good fortune. Subduing, therefore, the haughtiness of temper 
proper to him as an only son and heir, he answered respect- 
fully, that, in his condition, the advice and assistance of Mr. 
Scrogie Touchwood were too important, not to be purchased at 
the price of submitting his own judgment to that of an experi- 
enced and sagacious friend. 

“ Well said, Mr. Mowbray,” replied the senior, “ well said. 
Let me once hav'-e the management of your affairs, and we will 
brush them up for you without loss of time. — I must be obliged 
to you for a bed for the night, however — it is as dark as a 
wolf’s mouth ; and if you will give orders to keep the poor devil 


372 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


of a postilion, and his horses too, why I will be the more 
obliged to you.” 

Slowbray applied himself to the bell. Patrick answered the 
call, and was much surprised, when the old gentleman, taking 
the word out of his entertainer’s mouth, desired a bed to be got 
ready, with a little fire in the grate ; “ for I take it, friend,” 
he went on, “ you have not guests here very often. — And see 
that my sheets be not damp, and bid the housemaid take care 
not to make the bed upon an exact level, but let it slope from the 
pillow to the footposts, at a declivity of about eighteen inches. 
— And hark ye — get me a jug of barley-water, to place by my 
bedside, with the squeeze of a lemon — or stay, you will make it 
as sour as Beelzebub— bring the lemon on a saucer, and I will 
mix it myself.” 

Patrick listened like one of sense forlorn, his head turning 
like a mandarin, alternately from the speaker to his master, as 
if to ask the latter whether this was all reality. The instant 
that Touchwood stopped, Mowbray added his fiat. 

“ Let everything be done to make Mr. Touchwood comfort- 
able, in the way he wishes.” 

“ Aweel, sir,” said Patrick, “ I shall tell Mally, to be sure, 
and we maun do our best, and — but it’s unco late ” 

“And therefore,” said Touchwood, “the sooner we get to 
bed the better, my old friend. I, for one, must be stirring 
early — I have business of life and death — It concerns you too, 
Mr. Mowbray — but no more of that till to-morrow. — And let 
the lad put up his horses, and get him a bed somewhere.” 

Patrick here thought he had gotten upon firm ground for 
resistance, for which, displeased with the dictatorial manner of 
the stranger, he felt considerably inclined. 

“ Ye may catch us at that, if ye can,” said Patrick ; “ there’s 
nae post-cattle come into our stables — What do we ken, but 
that they may be glandered as the groom says ? ” 

“ We must take the risk to-night, Patrick,” said Mowbray, 
reluctantly enough — “unless Mr. Touchwood will permit the 
horses to come back early next morning ? ” 

“ Not I, indeed,” said Touchwood ; “ safe bind safe find — 
it may be once away and aye away, and we shall have enough 
to do to-morrow morning. Moreover, the poor carrion are 
tired, and the merciful man is merciful to his beast — and, in a 
word, if the horses go back to St. Ronan’s Well to-night, I go 
there for company.” 

It often happens, owing, I suppose, to the perversity of 
human nature, that subserviency in trifles is more difficult to a 
proud mind, than compliance in matters of more importance. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


373 

Mowbray, like other young gentlemen of his class, was finically 
rigid in his stable discipline, and even Lord Etherington’s 
horses had not been admitted into that sanctum sanctorum, into 
which he no>v saw himself obliged to induct two wretched post- 
hacks. But he submitted with the best grace he could ; and 
Patrick, while he left their presence with lifted-up hands and 
eyes, to execute the orders he had received, coifld scarcely help 
thinking that the old man must be the devil in disguise, since 
he could thus suddenly control his fiery master, even in the 
points which he had hitherto seemed to consider as of most 
vital importance. 

“ The Lord in his mercy hand a grip of this puir family ! 
for I, that was born in it, am like to see the end of it.” 
Thus ejaculated Patrick. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH. 

THE WANDERER. 

’Tis a naughty night to swim in. 

King Lear. 

There was a wild uncertainty about Mowbray’s ideas, after 
he started from a feverish sleep on the morning succeeding this 
memorable interview, that his sister, whom he really loved as 
much as he was capable of loving anything, had dishonored 
him and her name ; and the horrid recollection of their last 
interview was the first idea which his waking imagination was 
thrilled with. Then came Touchwood’s tale of exculpation — ■ 
and he persuaded himself, or strove to do so, that Clara must 
have understood the charge he had brought against her as 
referring to her attachment to Tyrrel, and its fatal conse- 
quences. Again, still he doubted how that could be — still feared 
that there must be more behind than her reluctance to confess 
the fraud which had been practiced on her by Buhner; and 
then, again, he strengthened himself in the first aud more 
pleasing opinion by recollecting that, averse as slie was to 
espouse the person he proposed to her, it must have appeared 
to her the completion of ruin, if he, Mowbray, should obtain 
knowledge of the clandestine marriage. 

“Yes — O ves,” he said to himself, “she would think that 
this story would render me more eager in the rascal’s interest, 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


374 

as the best way of hushing up such a discreditable affair — 
faith, and she would have judged right too; for, had he actually 
been Lord Etherington, I do not see what else she could have 
done. But, not being Lord P2therington, and an anointed 
scoundrel into the bargain, I will content myself with cudgel- 
ling him to death so soon as I can get out of the guardianship 
of this old, meddling, obstinate, self-willed busy-body. — Then, 
what is to be done for Clara? — This mock marriage was a 
mere bubble, and both parties must draw stakes. She likes 
this grave Don, who proves to be the stick of the right tree, 
after all — so do not I, though there be something lord-like 
about him. I was sure a strolling painter could not have car- 
ried it off so. She may marry him, I suppose, if the law is not 
against it — then she has the earldom, and the Oaklands, and 
Nettlewood, all at once. — Gad, we should come in winners, 
after all — and, I dare say, this old boy Touchwood is as rich as 
a Jew — worth a hundred thousand at least — He is too peremp- 
tory to be cut up for sixpence under a hundred thousand. — 
And he talks of putting me to rights — I must not wince — must 
stand still to be curried a little —Only, I wish the law may per- 
mit Clara’s being married to this other earl. — A woman cannot 
marry two brothers, that is certain ; but, then, if she is not 
married to the one of them in good and lawful form, there can 
be no bar to her marrying the other, I should think — I hope 
the lawyers will talk no nonsense about it — I hope Clara will 
have no foolish scruples. — But, by my word, the first thing I 
have to hope is, that the thing is true, for it comes through but 
a suspicious channel. Til away to Clara instantly — get the 
truth out of her — and consider what is to be done.” 

Thus partly thought and partly spoke the young Laird of 
St. Ronan’s, hastily dressing himself, in order to inquire into 
the strange chaos of events which perplexed his imagination. 

When he came down to the parlor where they had supped 
last night, and where breakfast was prepared this morning, he 
sent for a girl who acted as his sister’s immediate attendant, 
and asked “ if Miss Mowbray was yet stirring? ” 

The girl answered, “ she had not rung her bell.” 

'Ht is past her usual hour,” said Mowbray, “but she was 
disturbed last night. Go, Martha, tell her to get up instantly 
■ — say I have excellent good news for her — or, if her head 
aches, I will come and tell them to her before she rises — go 
like lightning.” 

Martha went, and returned in a minute or two. “ I cannot 
make my mistress hear, sir, knock as loud as I will. I wish,” 
she added, with that love of evil presage which is common in 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


375 

the lower ranks, “ that Miss Clara may be well, for I never 
knew her sleep so sound.” 

Mowbray jumped from the chair into which he had thrown 
himself, ran through the gallery, and knocked smartly at his 
sister’s door ; there was no answer. Clara, dear Clara 1 — 
Answer me but one word — say but you are well. I frightened 
you last night — I had been drinking wine — I was violent — for- 
give me ! — Come, do not be sulky — speak but a single word — 
say but you are well.” 

He made the pauses longer betwixt every branch of his 
address, knocked sharper and louder, listened more anxiously 
for an answer ; at length he attempted to open the door, but 
found it locked, or otherwise secured. “ Does Miss Mowbray 
always lock her door ? ” he asked the girl. 

“ Never knew her do it before, sir ; she leaves it open that 
I may call her, and open the window shutters.” 

She had too good reason for precaution last night, thought 
her brother, and then remembered having heard her bar the 
door. 

“Come, Clara,” he continued, greatly agitated, “do not be 
silly ; if you will not open the door, I must force it, that’s all ; 
for how can I tell but that you are sick, and unable to answer.^ 
— df you are only sullen, say so. — She returns no answer,” he 
said, turning to the domestic, who was now joined by Touch- 
wood. 

Mowbray’s anxiety was so great, that it prevented his 
taking any notice of his guest, and he proceeded to say, with- 
out regarding his presence, “What is to be done ? — she may be 
sick — she may be asleep — she may have swooned ; if I force 
the door, it may terrify her to dcatli in the present weak state 
of her nerves. — Clara, dear Clara ! do but speak a single word, 
and you shall remain in your own room as long as you please.” 

There was no answer. Miss Mowbray’s maid, hitherto too 
much fluttered and alarmed to have much presence of mind, 
now recollected a back-stair which communicated with her 
mistress’s room from the garden, and suggested she might 
have gone out that way. 

“ Gone out,” said Mowbray, in great anxiety, and looking 
at the heavy fog, or rather small rain, which blotted the No- 
vember morning, — “ Gone out, and in weather like this ! — But 
wc mav get into her room from the back-stair.” 

So saying, and leaving his guest to follow or remain as he 
thought proper, he flew rather than walked to the garden, and 
found the private door which led into it from the bottom of the 
back-stair above mentioned was wide open. Full of vague but 


ST. KONAN’S WELL. 


376 

fearful apprehensions, he rushed up to the door of his sister’s 
apartment, which opened from her dressing-room to the landing- 
place of the stair ; it was ajar, and that which communicated 
betwixt the bed-room and dressing-room was half open. “ Clara, 
Clara ! ” exclaimed Mowbray, invoking her name rather in an 
agony of apprehension, than as any longer hoping for a reply. 
And "his apprehension was but too prophetic. 

Miss Mowbray was not in that apartment ; and from the order 
in which it was found, it was plain she had neither undressed on 
the preceding night, nor occupied the bed. Mowbray struck his 
forehead in an agony of remorse and fear. “I have terrified her to 
death,” he said ; “ she has fled in to the woods and perished there!” 

Under the influence of this apprehension, Mowbray, after 
another hasty glance around the apartment, as if to assure him 
self that Clara was not there, rushed again into the dressing 
room, almost overturning the traveler, who, in civility, had no 
ventured to enter the inner apartment. “You are as mad as a 
Hamako^'^ * said the traveler ; “ let us consult together, and I 
am sure I can contrive” 

“ Oh, d — n your contrivance ! ” said Mowbray, forgetting all 
proposed respect in his natural impatience, aggravated by his 
alarm ; “ if you had behaved straightforward, and like a man of 
common sense, this would not. have happened I ’ 

‘i God forgive you, young man, if your reflections are unjust,” 
said the traveler, quitting the hold he had laid upon Mowbray’s 
coat ; “ and God forgive me too, if 1 have done wrong while 
endeavoring to do for the best ! — But may not Miss Mowbray 
have gone clown to the Well } I will order my horses, and set 
off instantly.” 

“ Do, clo,” said Mowbray recklessly ; “ I thank you;” and 
hastily traversing the garden, as if desirous to get rid at once of 
his visitor and his own thoughts, he took the shortest road to 
a little postern-gate, which led into the extensive copsewood, 
through some part of which Clara had caused a walk to be cut 
to a little summer-house built of rough shingles, covered with 
creeping shrubs. 

As Mowbray hastened through the garden he met the old 
man by whom it was kept, a native of the south country, and 
an old dependant on the family. “ Have you seen my sister ? ” 
said Mow’bray, hurrying his words on each other with the eager- 
ness of terror. 

“ What’s your wull, St. Ronan’s answered the old man, at 
once dull of hearing and slow of apprehension. 

“ Have you seen Miss Clara ?” shouted Mowbray, and mut- 
tered an oath or two at the gardener’s stupidity. 

* A fool is so termed in Turkey. 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


377 


“ In troth have I,” replied the gardener deliberately ; “ what 
suld ail me to see Miss Clara, St. Ronan’s ? ” 

“ When, and where ? ” eagerly demanded the querist. 

“Ou, just yestreen, after tey-time — afore ye cam hameyour* 
sell galloping sae fast,” said Joseph. 

“ I am as stupid as he, to put off my time in speaking to 
such an old cabbage-stock,” said Mowbray, and hastened on to 
the postern-gate already mentioned, leading from the garden 
to what was usually called Miss Clara’s walk. Two or three 
domestics, whispering to each other, and with countenances that 
showed grief, fear, and suspicion, followed their master, desirous 
to be employed, yet afraid to force their services on the fiery 
young man. 

At the little postern he found some traces of her he sought. 
The pass-key of Clara was left in the lock. It was then plain 
that she must have passed that way ; but at what hour, or for 
what purpose, Mowbray dared not conjecture. The path, after 
running a quarter of a mile or more through an open grove of 
oaks and sycamores, attained the verge of the large brook, and 
became there steep and rocky, difficult to the infirm, and alarm- 
ing to the nervous; often approaching the brink of a precipitous 
ledge of rock, which in this place overhung the stream, in some 
places brawling and foaming in hasty current, and in others 
seeming to slumber in deep and circular eddies. The tempta- 
tions which this dangerous scene must have offered an excited 
and desperate spirit, came on Mowbray like the blight of the 
Simoom, and he stood a moment to gather breath and overcome 
these horrible anticipations, ere he was able to proceed. His 
attendants felt the same apprehension. “ Puir thing — puir 
thing ! — Oh, God send she may not have been left to hersell ! — ■ 
God send she may have been upholden ! ” were whispered by 
Patrick to the maidens, and by them to each other. 

At this moment the old gardener was heard behind them, 
shouting, “ Master — St. Ronan’s — Master — 1 have fund — -I 
have fund ” — — 

“ Have you found my sister .? ” exclaimed the brother, with 
breathless anxiety. 

The old man did not answer till he came up, and then, with 
his usual slowness of delivery, he replied to his master’s repeated 
inquiries, ‘‘Na, I haena fund Miss Clara, but I hae fund some- 
thing ye wad be wae to lose — your braw hunting-knife.” 

He put the implement into the hand of its owner, who, rec- 
ollecting the circumstances under which he had flung it from 
him last night, and the now too probable consequences of that 
interview, bestowed on it a deep imprecation, and again hurled 


ST. RON^AN'S WELL. 


378 

it from him into the brook. The domestics looked at each 
other, and recollecting each kt the same time that the knife 
was a favorite tool of their master, who was rather curious in 
such articles, had little doubt that his mind was affected, in a 
temporary way at least, by his anxiety on his sister’s account. 
He saw their confused and inquisitive looks, and assuming as 
much composure and presence of mind as he could command, 
directed Martha and her female companions to return and 
search the walks on the other side of Shaws Castle ; and finally 
ordered Patrick back to ring the bell, “ which,” he said, assum- 
ing a confidence that he was far from entertaining, “ might call 
Miss Mowbray home from some of her long walks.” He further 
desired his groom and horses might meet him at the Clattering 
Brig, so called from a noisy cascade which was formed by the 
brook, above which was stretched a ‘^mall foot-bridge of planks. 
Having thus shaken off his attendants, he proceeded himself, 
with all the speed he was capable of exerting, to follow out 
the path in which he was at present engaged, which, being a 
favorite 'valk with his sister, she might perhaps have adopted 
from mere habit, w'hen in a state of mind which, he had too 
much reason to fear, must have put choice cut of the question. 

He soon reached the summer-house, which was merely a seat 
covered overhead and on the sides, open in front, and neatly 
paved with pebbles. This little bower w’as perched, like a 
hawk’s nest, almost upon the edge of a projecting crag, the 
highest point of the line of rock which we have noticed ; and 
had been selected by poor Clara on account of the prospect 
which it commanded down the valley. One of her gloves lay 
on the small rustic table in the summer-house. Mowbray 
caught it eagerly up. It was dienched with wet — the preced- 
ing day had been dry ; so that had she forgot it there in the 
morning, or in the course of the day, it could not have been in 
that state. She had certainly been there during the night, when 
it rained heavily. 

MowBray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place 
while her passions and fears were so much afloat as they must 
have been at her flight from her father’s house, cast a hurried 
and terrified glance from the brow of the precipice into the deep 
stream that eddied below-. It seemed to him that, in the sullen 
roar of the w-ater, he heard the last groans of his sister — the foam- 
flakes caught his eye, as if they w-ere a part of her garments. 
But a closer examination show-ed that there was no appearance 
of such a catastrophe. Descending the path on the other side 
of the bower, he observed a footprint in a place where the clay 
was moist and tenacious, which, from the small size and the 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


379 

shape of the shoe, it appeared to him must be a trace of her 
whom he sought. He hurried forward, therefore, with as much 
speed as yet permitted him to look out keenly for similar im- 
pressions, of which it seemed to him he remarked several, 
although less perfect than the former, being much obliterated 
by the quantity of rain that had since fallen— a circumstance 
seeming to prove that several hours had elapsed since the person 
had passed. 

At length, through the various turnings and windings of a long 
and romantic path, Mowbray found himself, without having re- 
ceived any satisfactory intelligence, by the side of the brook, 
called St. Ronan’s Burn, at the place where it was crossed 
by foot-passengers, by the Clattering Brig, and by horsemen 
through a ford a little lower. At this point the fugitive might 
have either continued her wanderings through her paternal 
woods, by a path which, after winding about a mile, returned to 
Shaws Castle, or she might have crossed the bridge, and en- 
tered a broken horseway, common to the public, leading to the 
Aultoun of St. Ronalds. 

Mowbray, after a moment’s consideration, concluded that the 
last was her most probable option. He mounted his horse, 
which the groom had brought down according to order, and com- 
manding the man to return by the footpath, which he himself 
could not examine, he proceeded to ride toward the ford. The 
brook was swollen during the night, and the groom could not 
forbear intimating to his master that there was considerable 
danger in attempting to cross it. But Mowbray’s mind and 
feelings were too high-strung to permit him to listen to cautious 
counsel. He spurred the snorting and reluctant horse into the 
torrent, though the water, rising high on the upper side, broke 
both over the pommel and the croupe of the saddle. It was by 
exertion of great strength and sagacity that the good horse 
kept the ford-way. Had the stream forced him down among 
the rocks, which lie below the crossing-place, the consequence 
must have been fatal. Mowbray, however, reached the opposite 
side in safety, to the joy and admiration of the servant, who 
stood staring at him during the adventure. He then rode 
hastily toward the Aultoun, determined, if he could not hear 
tidings of his sister in that village, that he could spread the 
alarm, and institute a general search after her, since her elope- 
ment from Shaws Castle could, in that case, no longer be con- 
cealed. We must leave him, however, in his present state of 
uncertainty, in order to acquaint our readers with the reality of 
those evils, which his foreboding mind and disturbed conscience 
could only anticipate. 


380 


ST. KONAN^S WELL. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

THE CATASTROPHE. 

What sheeted ghost is wandering through the storm? 

For never did a maid of middle earth 

Choose such a time or spot to vent her sorrows. 

Old Play. 

Grief, shame, confusion, and terror, had contributed to 
overwhelm the unfortunate Clara Mowbray, at the moment 
when she parted with her brother, after the stormy and danger- 
ous interview which it was our task to record in a former 
chapter. For years, her life, her whole tenor of thought, had 
been haunted by the terrible apprehension of a discovery, and 
now the thing which she feared had come upon her. The 
extreme violence of her brother, which went so far as to 
menace her personal safety, had united with the previous con- 
flict of passions to produce a rupture of fear, which probably 
left her no other free agency, than that which she derived from 
the blind instinct which urges flight, as the readiest resource in 
danger. 

We have no means of exactly tracing the course of this un- 
happy young woman. It is probable she fled from Shaws 
Castle on hearing of the arrival of Mr. Touchwood’s carriage, 
which she might mistake for that of Lord Etherington ; and 
thus, while Mowbray was looking forward to the happier pro- 
spects which the traveler’s narrative seemed to open, his sister 
was contending with rain and darkness, amidst the difficulties 
and dangers of the mountain path which we have described. 
These were so great, that a young woman more delicatelv 
brought up, must either have lain down exhausted, or have 
been compelled to turn her steps back to the residence she 
had abandoned. But the solitary wanderings of Clara had in- 
ured her to fatigue and to night-walks ; and the deeper causes 
of terror which urged her to flight, rendered her insensible to 
the perils of her way. She had passed the bower, as was evi- 
dent from her glove remaining there, and had crossed the foot- 
bridge ; although it was almost wonderful, that, in so dark a 
night, she should have followed with such accuracy a track, 
where the missing a single turn by a cubit’s length might have 
precipitated her into eternity. 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


381 

It is probable that Clara’s spirits and strength began in 
some degree to fail her after she had proceeded a little way on 
the road to the Aultoun ; for she had stopped at the solitary 
cottage inhabited by the old female pauper, who had been for 
a time the hostess of the penitent and dying Hannah Irwin. 
Here, as the inmate of the cottage acknowledged, she had 
made some knocking, and she owned she had heard her moan 
bitterly, as she entreated for admission. The old hag was one 
of those whose hearts adversity turns to very stone, and obsti- 
nately kept her door shut, impelled more probably by general 
hatred to the human race, than by the superstitious fears which 
seized her ; although she perversely argued that she was startled 
at the supernatural melody and sweetness of tone, with which the 
benighted wanderer made her supplication. She admitted, that 
when she heard the poor petitioner turn from the door her heart 
was softened, and she did intend to open with the purpose of 
offering her at least a shelter ; but that before she could “hirple 
to the door, and get the bar taken down,” the unfortunate sup- 
plicant was not to be seen ; which strengthened the old woman’s 
opinion that the whole was a delusion of Satan. 

It is conjectured that the repulsed wanderer made no other 
attempt to awaken pity or obtain shelter until she came to 
Mr. Cargill’s Manse, in the upper room of which a light was 
still burning, owing to a cause which requires some explanation. 

The reader is aware of the reasons which induced Bulmer, 
or the titular Lord Etherington, to withdraw from the country 
the sole witness, as he conceived, who could, or at least who 
might choose, to bear witness to the fraud which he had practiced 
on the unfortunate Clara Mowbray. Of three persons present 
at the marriage, besides the parties, the clergyman was completely 
deceived. Solmes he conceived to be at his own exclusive 
devotion ; and therefore, if by his means this Hannah Irwin could 
be removed from the scene, he argued plausibly, that all evi- 
dence to the treachery w’hich he had practiced w'ould be effectually 
stifled. Hence his agent, Solmes, had received a commission, 
as the reader may remember, to effect her removal without loss 
of time, and had reported to his master that his efforts had been 
effectual. 

But Solmes, since he had fallen under the influence of Touch- 
wood, was constantly employed in counteracting the schemes 
which he seemed most active in forwarding, wLile the traveler 
enjoyed (to him an exquisite gratification) the amusement of 
countermining as fast as Bulmer could mine, and had in pros- 
pect the pleasing anticipation of blowing up the pioneer with 
his own petard. P'or this purpose, as soon as Touchwood 


ST. RONAJT'S WELL. 


382 

learned that his house was to be applied to for the original deeds 
left in charge by the deceased Earl of Etherington, he expedited 
a letter, directing that only the copies should be sent, and thus 
rendered nugatory Bulmer’s desperate design of possessing him- 
self of that evidence. For the same reason, when Solmes 
announced to him his master’s anxious wish to have Hannah 
Irwin conveyed out of the country, he appointed him to cause 
the sick woman to be carefully transported to the Manse, where 
Mr. Cargill was easily induced to give her temporary refuge. 

To this good man, who might be termed an Israelite with- 
out guile, the distress of the unhappy woman would have proved 
a sufficient recommendation ; nor was he likely to have inquired 
whether her malady might not be infectious, or to have made 
any of those other previous investigations which are sometimes 
clogs upon the bounty or hospitality of more prudent philan- 
thropists. But, to interest him yet further, Mr. Touchwood 
informed him by letter that the patient (not otherwise unknown 
to him) was possessed of certain most material information 
affecting a family of honor and consequence, and that he him- 
self, with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s in the quality of a 
magistrate, intended to be at the Manse that evening, to take 
her declaration upon this important subject. Such, indeed, was 
the traveler’s purpose, which might have been carried into effect, 
but for his own self-important love of manoeuvring on the one 
part, and the fiery impatience of Mowbray on the other, which, 
as the reader knows, sent the one at full gallop to Shaws Castle, 
and obliged the other to follow him post-haste. This necessity 
he intimated to the clergyman by a note, which he despatched 
express as he himself was in the act of stepping into the chaise. 

He requested that the most particular attention should be 
paid to the invalid — promised to be at the Manse with Mr. 
Mowbray early on the morrow — and, with the lingering and 
inveterate self-conceit which always induced him to conduct 
everything with his own hand, directed his friend, Mr. Cargill, 
not to proceed to take the sick woman’s declaration or confession 
until he arrived, unless in case of extremity. 

It had been an easy matter for Solmes to transfer the invalid 
from the wretched cottage to the clergyman’s Manse. The 
first appearance of the associate of much of her guilt had indeed 
terrified her ; but he scrupled not to assure her, that his 
penitence was equal to her own, and that he was conveying her 
where their joint deposition would be formally received, in 
order that they might, so far as possible, atone for the evil of 
which they had been jointly guilty. He also promised her 
kind usage for herself, and support for her children ; and she 


^ 7 ; RONAN^S WELL, 


3*3 

willingly accompanied him to the clergyman’s residence, he him- 
self resolving to abide in concealment the issue of the mystery, 
without again facing his master, whose star, as he well discerned, 
was about to shoot speedily from its exalted sphere. 

The clergyman visited the unfortunate patient, as he had 
done frequently during her residence in his vicinity, and desired 
that she might be carefully attended. During the whole day, 
she seemed better ; but, whether the means of supporting her 
exhausted frame had been too liberally administered, or whether 
the thoughts which gnawed her conscience had returned with 
double severity when she was released from the pressure of 
immediate want, it is certain that, about midnight, the fever 
began to gain ground, and the person placed in attendance on 
her came to inf^orm the clergyman, then deeply engaged with 
the siege of Ptolemais, that she doubted if the woman would 
live till morning, and that she had something lay heavy at her 
heart, which she wished, as the emissary expressed it, “ to make 
a clean breast of,” before she died, or lost possession of her 
senses. 

Awakened by such a crisis, Mr. Cargill at once became a 
man of this world, clear in his apprehension, and cool in his 
resolution, as he always was when the path of duty lay before 
him. Comprehending from the various hints of his friend 
Touchwood, that the matter was of the last consequence, his 
own humanity, as well as inexperience, dictated his sending for 
skilful assistance. His man-servant was accordingly despatched 
on horseback to the Well for Dr. Quackleben ; while, upon the 
suggestion of one of his maids, “ that Mrs. Dods was an uncom- 
mon skeely body about a sick-bed,” the wench was dismissed to 
supplicate the assistance of the gudewife of the Cleikum, which 
she was not, indeed, wont to refuse whenever it could be useful. 
The male emissary proved, in Scottish phrase, a “ corbie mes- 
senger;” for either he did not find the doctor, or he found him 
better engaged than to attend the sick-bed of a pauper, at a 
request which promised such slight remuneration as that of a 
parish minister. But the female ambassador was more success- 
ful ; for, though she found our friend Luckie Dods preparing for 
bed at an hour unusually late, in consequence of some anxiety 
on account of Mr. Touchwood’s unexpected absence, the good 
old dame only growled a little about the minister’s fancies in 
taking puir bodies into his own house ; and then, instantly 
donning cloak, hood, and pattens, marched down the gate with 
all the speed of the good Samaritan, one maid bearing the lamp 
before her, while the other remained to keep the house, and to 


ST. RONAN^S WELL, 


384 

attend to the wants of Mr. Tyrrel, who engaged willingly to sit 
up to receive Mr. Touchwood. 

But ere Dame Dods had arrived at the Manse, the patient 
had summoned Mr. Cargill to her presence, and required him to 
write her confession while she had life and breath to make it. 

“ For I believe,” she added, raising herself in the bed, and 
rolling her eyes wildly around, “ that, were I to confess my guilt 
to one of a less sacred character, the Evil Spirit, whose servant 
I have been, would carry away his prey, both body and soul, 
before th^ had severed from each other, however short the space 
that they must remain in partnership ! ” 

Mr. Cargill would have spoken some ghostly consolation, 
but she answered with pettish impatience, “ Waste not words — 
waste not words ! — Let me speak that which I must tell, and 
sign it with my hand : and do you, as the more immediate 
servant of God, and therefore bound to bear witness to the truth, 
take heed that which I tell you, and nothing else. I desired to 
have told this to St. Ronan’s — I have even nvide some progress 
in telling it to others — but I am glad I broke short off — for I 
know you, Josiah Cargill, though you have long forgotten me.” 

“ It may be so,” said Cargill. “ I indeed have no recollection 
of you.” 

“You once knew Hannah Irwin, though,” said the sick 
woman ; “ who was companion and relation to Miss Clara 
Mowbray, and who was present with her on that sinful night, 
when she was wedded in the kirk of St. Ronan’s.” 

“Do you mean to say that you are that person ? ” said Cargill, 
holding the candle so as to throw some light on the face of the 
sick woman. “ I cannot believe it.” 

“ No ? ” replied the penitent ; “ there is indeed a difference 
between wickedness in the act of carrying through its successful 
machinations, and wickedness surrounded by all the horrors of a 
death-bed ! ” 

“ Do not.yet despair,” said Cargill. “ Grace is omnipotent 
— to doubt this is in itself a great crime.” 

“ Be it so ! — I cannot help it — my heart is hardened, Mr. 
Cargill ; and there is something here,” she pressed her bosom, 
“ which tells me, that, with prolonged life and renewed health, 
even my present agonies would be forgotten, and I should 
become the same I have been before. I have rejected the offer 
of grace, Mr. Cargill, and not through ignorance, for I have 
sinned with my eyes open. Care not for me, then, who am a 
mere outcast.” He again endeavored to interrupt her, but 
she continued, “ Or if you really wish my welfare, let me relieve 
my bosom of that which presses it, and it may be that I shall 


ST, RONAN'S WELL, 


385 

then be better able to listen to you. You say you remember me 
not — but if 1 tell you how often you refused to perform in secret 
the office which was required of you — how much you urged that 
it was against your canonical rules — if I name the argument to 
which you yielded — and remind you of your purpose, to acknowl- 
edge your transgression to your brethren in the church courts, 
to plead your excuse, and submit to their censure, which you 
said could not be a light one — you will be then aware, that, in 
the voice of the miserable pauper, you hear the words of the 
once artful, gay, and specious Hannah Irwin. ” 

“ I allow it — I allow it ! ” said Mr. Cargill ; “ I admit the 
tokens, and believe you to be indeed her whose name you 
assume. ” 

“ Then one painful step is over,” said she ; “for I would ere 
now have lightened my conscience by confession, saving for the 
cursed pride of spirit, which was ashamed of poverty, though it 
had not shrunk from guilt. — Well — In these arguments, which 
were urged to you by a youth best known to you by the name 
of Francis Tyrrel, though more properly entitled to that of 
Valentine Buhner, we practiced on you a base and gross decep- 
tion. — Did you not hear some one sigh ? — I hope there is no one 
in the room. — I trust I shall die when my confession is signed 
and sealed, without my name being dragged through the public 
— I hope ye bring not in your menials to gaze on my abject 
misery — I cannot brook that.” 

She paused and listened ; for the ear, usually deafened by 
pain, is sometimes, on the contrary, rendered morbidly acute. 
Mr. Cargill assured her, there was no one present but himself. 
But, O, most unhappy woman ! ” he said, “ what does your intro- 
duction prepare me to expect ? ” 

“ Your expectation, be it ever so ominous, shall be fully satis- 
fied. — I was the guilty confidant of the false Francis Tyrrel. — 
Clara loved the true one. — When the fatal ceremony passed, the 
bride and the clergyman were deceived alike — and I was the 
wretch — the fiend — who, aiding another yet bla(5:er, if blacker 
could be — mainly helped to accomplish this cureless misery ! ” 

“ Wretch ! ” exclaimed the clergyman, “and had you not then 
done enough } — Why did you expose the betrothed of one brother 
to become the wife of another ? ” 

“ I acted,” said the sick woman^“only as Buhner instructed 
me ; but I had to do with a master of the game. He contrived, 
by his agent Solmes, to match me with a husband imposed on 
me by his devices as a man of fortune — a wretch, who maltreated 
me — plundered me — sold me. — Oh ! if fiends laugh, as I have 
heard they can, what a jubilee of scorn will there be, when Bui- 


ST. /^OA’'AAr*S WELL. 


386 

mer and I enter their place of torture ! — Hark ! — I am sure of 
it — some one draws breath as if shuddering ! ” 

“ You will distract yourself if you give way to these fancies. 
Be calm — speak on — but oh ! at last, and for once, speak the 
truth ! ” 

“ I will, for it will best gratify my hatred against him, who 
having first robbed me of my virtue made me a sport and a 
plunder to the basest of the species. For that I wandered here 
to unmask him. I had heard he again stirred his suit to Clara, 
and I came here to tell young Mowbray the whole. — But do 
you wonder that I shrunk from doing so till this last decisive 
moment ? — I thought of my conduct to Clara, and how could I 
face her brother? — And yet I hated her not after I learned her 
utter wretchedness — her deep misery, verging even upon mad- 
ness — I hated her not then. I was sorry that she was not to fall 
to the lot of a better man than Buhner ; — and I pitied her after 
she was rescued by Tyrrel, and you may remember it was I who 
prevailed on you to conceal her marriage.” 

“ I remember it,” answered Cargill, “ and that you alleged 
as a reason for secrecy, danger from her family. I did conceal 
it, until reports that she was again to be married reached my 
ears.” 

“Well then,” said the sick woman, “ Clara Mowbray ought 
to forgive me — since what ill I have done her was inevitable, 
while the good I did was voluntary. — I must see her. Master 
Cargill — I must see her before I die — I shall never pray till I 
see her — I shall never profit by word of godliness till I see her ! 
If I cannot obtain the pardon of a worm like myself, how can I 
hope for that of ” 

She started at these words with a faint scream ; for slowly, 
and with a feeble hand, the curtains of the bed opposite to the 
side at which Cargill sat were opened, and the figure of Clara 
Mowbray, her clothes and long hair drenched and dripping with 
rain, stood in the opening by the bedside. The dying woman 
sat upright, her eyes starting from their sockets, her lips quiver- 
ing, her face pale, her emaciated hands grasping the bed-clothes 
as if to support herself, and looking as much aghast as if her 
confession had called up the apparition of the betrayed friend. 

“ Hannah Irwin,” said Clara, wnth her usual sweetness of 
tone, “ my early friend — n^ unprovoked enemy ! — Betake thee 
to Him who hath pardon for us all, and betake thee with confi- 
dence — for I pardon you as freely as if you had never wronged 
me — as freely I desire my own pardon. — Farewell — Fare- 
well ! ” 

She retired from the room ere the clergyman could convince 


ST. jRO/\rAJ\rS WELL. 


387 

himself that it was more than a phantom which he beheld. He 
ran down stairs — he summoned assistants, but no one could at- 
tend his call ; for the deep ruckling groans of the patient satisfied 
every one that she was breathing her last ; and Mrs. Dods, with 
the maid-servant, ran into the bed-room to witness the death of 
Hannah Irwin, which shortly after took place. 

That event had scarcely occurred, when the maid-servant who 
had been left in the inn, came down in great terror to acquaint 
her mistress, that a lady had entered the house like a ghost, 
and was dying in Mr. Tyrrel’s room. The truth of the story we 
must tell our own way. 

In the irregular state of Miss Mowbray‘s mind, a less violent 
impulse than that which she had received from her brother’s 
arbitrary violence, added to the fatigues, dangers, and terrors 
of her night-walk, might have exhausted the power of her body 
and alienated those of her mind. We have before said that the 
lights in the clergyman’s house had probably attracted her at- 
tention and in the temporary confusion of a family, never 
remarkable for its regularity, she easily mounted the stairs, and 
entered the sick chamber undiscovered, and thus overheard 
Hannah Irwin’s confession, a tale sufficient to have greatly 
aggravated her mental malady. 

We have no means of knowing whether she actually sought 
Tyrrel, or whether it was, as in the former case, the circum- 
stance of a light still burning where all around was dark, that 
attracted her; but her next apparition was close by the side of 
her unfortunate lover, then deeply engaged in writing, when 
something suddenly gleamed on a large old-fashioned mirrior, 
which hung on the w'all opposite. He looked up, and saw the 
figure of Clara, holding a light (which she had taken from the 
passage) in her extended hand. He stood for an instant with 
his eyes fixed on this fearful shadow, ere he dared to turn round 
on the substance which was thus reflected. When he did so, the 
fixed and pallid countenance almost impressed him with the 
belief that he saw a vision, and he shuddered when, stooping 
beside him, she took his hand. “Come away! ’’she said in a 
hurried voice — “ Come away, my brother follows to kill us both. 
Come, Tyrrel, let us fly — we shall easily escape him. — Hannah 
Irwin is on before — but, if we are overtaken, I will have no 
more fighting — you must promise me that we shall not — we have 
had but too much of that — but you will be wise in future.” 

“Clara Mowbray!” exclaimed Tyrrel, “Alas! is it thus ? 
— Stay — do not go,” for she turned to make her escape — “ stay 
■ — stay — sit down.” 

“ I must go,” she replied, “ I must go — I am called — Han-. 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


388 

nah Irwin is gone before to tell all, and I must follow. Will you 
not let me go ? — Nay, if you will hold me by force, I know I 
must sit down — But you will not be able to keep me for all 
that.” 

A convulsion fit followed, and seemed, by its violence, to 
explain that she was indeed bound for the last and darksome 
journey. The maid, who at length answered Tyrrel’s earnest 
and repeated summons, fled terrified at the scene she witnessed, 
and carried to the Manse the alarm which we before mentioned. 

The old landlady was compelled to exchange one scene of 
sorrow for another, wondering within herself what fatality could 
have marked this single night with so much misery. When she 
arrived at home, what was her astonishment to find there the 
daughter of the house, which, even in their alienation, she had 
never ceased to love, in a state little short of distraction, and 
tended by Tyrrel, whose state of mind seemed scarce more com- 
posed than that of the unhappy patient. The oddities of Mrs. 
Dods were merely the rust which had accumulated upon her char- 
acter, but without impairing its native strength and energy; 
and her sympathies were not of a kind acute enough to disable 
her from thinking and acting as decisively as circumstances 
required. 

“ Maister Tyrrel,” she said, “ this is nae sight for men folk 
ye maun rise and gang to another room.” 

I will not stir from her,” said Tyrrel — “ I will not remove 
from her either now, or as long as she or I may live.” 

“ That will be nae lang space, Maister Tyrrel, if ye wunna 
be ruled by common sense.” 

Tyrrel started up, as if half Comprehending what she said, 
remained motionless. 

“Come, come,” said the compassionate landlady; “ do not 
stand looking on a sight sair eneugh to break a harder heart 
than yours, hinny — your ain sense tells ye, ye canna stay here 
— Miss Clara shall be weel cared for, and I’ll bring word to your 
room-door frae half-hour to half-hour how she is.” 

The necessity of the case was undeniable, and Tyrrel suffered 
himself to be led to another apartment, leaving Miss Mowbray 
to the care of the hostess and her female assistants. He counted 
the hours in an agony, less by the watch than by the visits which 
Mrs. Dods, faithful to her promise, made from interval to inter- 
val, to tell him that Clara was not better — that she was worse — 
and, at last, that she did not think she could live over morning. 
It required all the deprecatory influence of the good landlady to 
restrain Tyrrel, who, calm and cold on common occasions, was 
proportionally fierce and impetuous when his passions were afloat 


ST. TON AN'S WELL. 


389 

from bursting into the room, and ascertaining, with his own eyes, 
the state of the beloved patient. At length there was a long in- 
terval — an interval of hours — so long, indeed, that Tyrrel caught 
from it the flattering hope that Clara slept, and that sleep might 
bring refreshment both to mind and body. Mrs. Dods, he con- 
cluded, was prevented from moving, for fear of disturbing her 
patient’s slumber ; and, as if actuated by the same feeling which 
he imputed to her, he ceased to traverse his apartment, as his 
agitation had hitherto dictated, and throwing himself into a 
chair, forbore to move even a finger, and withheld his respiration 
as much as possible, just as if he had been seated by the pillow 
of the patient. Morning was far advanced when his landlady 
appeared in his room with a grave and anxious countenance. 

“ Mr Tyrrel,” she said, “ ye are a Christian man.” 

“ Hush, hush, for Heaven’s sake ! ” he replied ; “ you will 
disturb Miss Mowbray.” 

“ Naething will disturb her, puir thing,” answered Mrs. 
Dods;“ they have muckle to answerfor that brought her to this.” 

“ They have — -they have indeed,” said Tyrrel, striking his 
forehead ; “ and I will see her avenged on every one of them ! 
— Can I see her ? ” 

“ Better not — better not,” said the good woman ; but he 
burst from her, and rushed into the apartment. 

“ Is life gone ? — Is every spark extinct ? ” he exclaimed 
eagerly to a country surgeon, a sensible man, who had been 
summoned from Marchthorn in the course of the night. The 
medical man shook his head — Tyrrel rushed to the bedside, and 
was convinced by his own eyes that the being whose sorrows 
he had both caused and shared was now insensible to all earthly 
calamity. He raised almost a shriek of despair, as he threw him- 
self on the pale hand of the corpse, wet it with tears, devoured 
it with kisses, and played for a short time the part of a dis* 
tracted person. At length, on the repeated expostulation of all 
present he suffered himself to be again conducted to another 
apartment, the surgeon following, anxious to give such sad 
consolation as the case admitted of. 

“ As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of 
this young lady,” he said, “ it may be some satisfaction to you, 
though a melancholy one, to know, that it has been occasioned 
by a pressure on the brain, probably accompanied by a suffu- 
sion ; and I feel authorized in stating, from the symptoms, that if 
life had been spared, reason would, in all probability, never have 
returned. In such a case, sir, the most affectionate relation 
must own that death, in comparison to life, is a mercy.” 

“ Mercy ! ” answered Tyrrel ; “ but why, then, is it denied to 


ST, RONAN'S WELL. 


390 

me ? — I know — I know ! — My life is spared till I revenge her.” 

He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs 
But, as he was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was 
stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighied from a carriage, 
with an air of stern anxiety imprinted on his features, very 
different from their usual expression. “ Whither would ye ? 
Whither would ye ” he said, laying hold of Tyrrel, and stopping 
him by force. 

“ For revenge — for revenge ! ” said Tyrrel. “ Give way, I 
charge you on your peril ! ” 

Vengeance belongs .to God,” replied the old man,” and his 
bolt has fallen. — This way — this way,” he continued, dragging 
Tyrrel into the house, Know,” he said, so soon as he had 
led or forced him into a chamber, “ that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s 
has met Bulmer within this half-hour, and has killed him on 
the spot.” 

“ Killed — whom ? ” answered the bewildered Tyrrel. 

‘‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.” 

“ You bring tiding of death to the house of death,” 
answered Tyrrel ; “ and there is nothing in this world left that 
I should live for.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH. 

CONCLUSION. 

Here come we to our close — for that which follows 
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 

Steep crags, and headlong linns may court the pencil, 

Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures ; 

But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor. 

In its long track of sterile desolation ? 

Old Play. 

When Mowbray crossed the brook, as we have already de- 
tailed, his mind was in that wayward and uncertain state, which 
seeks something whereon to vent the self-engendered rage with 
which it labors, like a volcano before eruption. On a sudden, a 
sho tor two, followed by loud voices and laughter, reminded him 
he had promised, at that hour, and in that sequestered place, to 
decide a bet respecting pistol-shooting, to which the titular 
Lord Etherington, Jekyl, and Captain MacTurk, to whom such 
a pastime was peculiarly congenial, were parties as well as 


ST, RONAN^S WELL, 


391 

himself. The prospect this recollection afforded him, of ven* 
geance on the man whom he regarded as the author of his 
sister’s wrongs, was, in the present state of his mind, too 
tempting to be relinquished ; and, setting spurs to his horse, he 
rushed through the copse to the little glade, where he found the 
other parties who, despairing of his arrival, had already begun 
their amusement. A jubilee shout was set up as he approached. 

“ Here comes Mowbray, dripping, py Cot, like a watering- 
pan,” said Captain MacTurk. 

“ I fear him not,” said Etherington (we may as well still call 
him so) ; “ he has ridden too fast to have steady nerves.” 

“ We shall soon see that, my Lord Etherington, or rather 
Mr. Valentine Biilmer,” said Mowbray, springing from his horse, 
and throwing the bridle over the bough of a tree. 

“What does this mean, Mr. Mowbray.?” said Etherington, 
drawing himself up, while Jekyl and Captain MacTurk looked 
at each other in sulrprise. 

“ It means, sir, that you are a rascal and an impostor,” replied 
Mowbray, “who have assumed a name to which you have 
no right.” 

“That, Mr. Mowbray, is an insult I cannot carry further 
than this spot,” said Etherington. 

“ If you had been willing to do so, you should have carried 
with it something still harder to be borne,” answered Mowbray. 

“ Enough, enough, my good sir ; no use in spurring a will- 
ins: horse. Tekyl, you will have the kindness to stand by me in 
this matter ? ” 

“ Certainly, my lord,” said Jekyl. 

“And as there seems to be no chance of taking up the 
matter amicably,” said the pacific Captain MacTurk, “ I will 
be most happy, so help me, to assist my worthy friend, Mr. 
Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, with my countena;nce and advice. 
Verygoot chance that we were here with the necessary weapons 
since it would have been an unpleasant thing to have such an 
affair long upon the stomach, any more than to settle it without 
witnesses.” 

“ I would fain know first,” said Jekyl, “ what all this sudden 
heat has arisen about ? ” 

“ About nothing,” said Etherington, “ except a mare’s nest 
of Mr. Mowbray’s discovering. He always knew his sister 
played the madwoman, and he has now heard a report, I sup- 
pose, that she has likewise in her time played the -fool.” 

“ Oh, crimini ! ” cried Captain MacTurk, “ my good Captain, 
let us pe loading and measuring out — for, by my soul, if these 


ST, JRONAN^S WELL. 


392 

sweetmeats be passing between them, it is only the twa ends of 
a hankercher that can serve the turn — Cot tamn ! ” 

With such friendly intentions the ground was hastily meted 
out. Each was well known as an excellent shot ; and the 
Captain offered a bet to Jekyl of a mutchkin of Glenlivat that 
both would fall by the first" fire. The event showed that he 
was nearly right, for the ball of Lord Etherington grazed 
Mowbray's temple at the very second of time that Mowbray’s 
pierced liis heart. He sprung a yard from the ground, and 
fell down a dead man. Mowbray stood fixed like a pillar of 
stone, his arm dropped to his side, his hand still clenched on 
the weapon of death, reeking at the touch-hole and muzzle. 
Jekyl ran to raise and support his friend, and Captain MacTurk, 
having adjusted his spectacles, stooped on one knee to look 
him in the face. “ We should have had Dr. Quackleben here,’’ 
he said, wiping his glasses, and returning them to the shagreen 
case, “ though it would have been only for form’s sake — for he 
is as dead as a toor-nail, poor boy. But come, Mowbray, my 
bairn,” he said, taking him by the arm, “ we must be ganging 
our ain gate, you and me, before waur comes of it. I have a 
bit pownie here, and you have your horse till we get to March- 
thorn. Captain Jekyl, I wish you a good morning. Will you 
have my umbrella back to the inn, for I surmeese it is going 
to rain ? ” 

Mowbray had not ridden a hundred yards with his guide and 
companion, when he drew his bridle, and refused to proceed a 
step further till he had learned what had become of Clara. 
The Captain began to find he had a very untractable pupil to 
manage, when, while they were arguing together. Touchwood 
drove past in his hack chaise. As soon as he recognized 
Mowbray, he stopped the carriage to inform him that his 
sister was at the Aultoun, which he had learned from finding 
there had been a messenger sent from thence to the Well for 
medical assistance, which could not be afforded, the Esculapius 
of the place, Dr. Quackleben, having been privately married to 
Mrs. Blower on that morning by Mr. Chatterly, and having set 
out on the usual nuptial tour. 

In return for this intelligence, Captain MacTurk communi- 
cated the fate of Lord Etherington. The old man earnestly 
pressed instant flight, for which he supplied at the same time 
ample means, engaging to furnish every kir.d of assistance and 
support to the unfortunate young lady ; and representing to 
Mowbray that if he stayed in the vicinity, a prison would soon 
separate them. Mowbray and his companion then departed 
southward upon the spur, reached London in safety, and from 


ST. RONAN^S WELL. 


393 

thence went together to the Peninsula, where the war was then 
at the hottest. 

There remains little more to be told. Mr. Touchwood is 
still alive, forming plans which have no object, and accumu- 
lating a fortune, for which he has apparently no heir. The old 
man had endeavored to fix his character, as well as his general 
patronage, upon Tyrrel, but the attempt only determined the 
latter' to leave the country ; nor has he been since heard of, 
although the title and estates of Etherington lie vacant for his 
acceptance. It is the opinion of many that he has entered into 
a Moravian mission, for the use of which he had previously 
drawn considerablt sums. 

Since Tyrrel's departure no one pretends to guess what old 
Touchwood will do with his money. He often talks of his 
disappointments, but can never be made to understand, or at 
least to admit, that they were in some measure precipitated by 
his own talent for intrigue and manoeuvring. Most people 
think that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s will be at last his heir. 
That gentleman has of late shown one quality which usually 
recommends men to the favor of rich relations — namely, a 
close and cautious care of what is already his own. Captain 
MacTurk’s military ardor having revived when they came 
within smell of gunpowder, the old soldier contrived not only 
to get himself on full pay, but to induce his companion to serv^e 
for some time as a volunteer. He afterward obtained a com- 
mission, and nothing could be more strikingly different than 
was the conduct of the young Laird of St. Ronan’s and of 
Lieutenant Mowbray. The former, as we know, was gay, ventur- 
ous, and prodigal ; the latter lived on his pay, and even within 
it — denied himself comforts, and often decencies, when doing 
so could save a guinea, and turned pale with apprehension if, on 
any extraordinary occasion, he ventured sixpence a corner at 
whisk. This meanness, or closeness of disposition, prevents his 
holding the high character to which his bravery and attention 
to his regimental duties might otherwise entitle him. The 
same close and accurate calculation of pounds, shillings, and 
pence marked his communications with his agent Meiklewham, 
who might otherwise have had better pickings out of the estate 
of St. Ronan’s, which is now at nurse, and thriving full fast, 
especially since some debts, of rather an usurious character, 
have been paid up by Mr. Touchwood, who contented himself 
with more moderate usage. 

On the subject of this property Mr. Mowbray, generally 
speaking, gave such minute directions for acquiring and saving, 
that his old acquaintance, 'Mr. Winterblossom, tapping his 


) 

394 ROJ\rAJV'S WELL. 

morocco snuff-box with the sly look which intimated the coming 
of a good thing, was wont to say that he had reversed the 
usual order of transformation, and was turned into a grub after 
having been a butterfly. After all, this narrowness, though 
a more ordinary modification of the spirit of avarice, may be 
founded on the same desire of acquisition which, in his earlier 
days, sent him to the gaming-table. 

But there was one remarkable instance in Which Mr. Mow- 
bray departed from the rules of economy, by which he was 
guided in all others. Having acquired, for a large sum of 
money, the ground which he had formerly feued out for the 
erection of the hotel, lodging-houses, shops, etc., at St. Ronan’s 
Well, he sent positive orders for the demolition of the whole ; 
nor would he permit the existence of any house of entertain- 
ment on his estate, except that in the Aultoun, where Mrs. 
Dods reigns with undisputed sway, her temper by no means 
improved either by time, or her arbitrary disposition by the 
total absence of competition. * 

Why Mr, MoWbray, with his acquired habits of frugality, 
thus destroyed a property which might have produced a con- 
siderable income, no one could pretend to affirm. Some said 
that he remembered his own early follies, and others that he 
connected the buildings with the misfortunes of his sister. 
The vulgar reported that Lord Etherington’s ghost had been 
seen in the ball-room, and the learned talked of the association 
of ideas. But it all ended in this, that Mr. Mowbray was 
independent enough to please himself, and that such was Mr. 
Mowbray’s pleasure. 

The little watering-place had returned to its primitive obscu, 
rity, and lions and lionesses, w'ith their several jackals, blue 
surtouts and bluer stockings, fiddlers and dancers, painters and 
amateurs, authors and critics, dispersed like pigeons by the 
demolition of a dovecot, have sought other scenes of amusement 
and rehearsal, and have deserted St. Ronan’s Well. 


Note H. Meg Dods 


NOTES TO ST. ROMAN’S WELL. 


Note A, p. 8 . — Inn Charges. 

This was universally the case in Scotland forty or fifty years ago ; and 
so little was charged for a domestic’s living when the Author became first 
acquainted with the road, that a shilling or eighteenpence was sufficient 
board wages for a man-servant, when a crown would not now answer the 
purpose. It is true the cause of these reasonable charges rested upon a 
principle equally unjust to the landlord and inconvenient to the guest. The 
landlord did not expect to make anything upon the charge for eating which 
his bill contained in consideration of which the guest was expected to 
drink more wine than might be convenient or agreeable to him, for the 
goodf as it was called, of the hoiise.'^ The landlord, indeed, was willing and 
ready to assist, in this duty, every stranger who came within his gates. 
Other things were in proportion. A charge for lodging, fire, and candle, 
was long a thing unheard of in Scotland. A shilling to the housemaid 
settled all such considerations. I see, from memorandums of 1790, that a 
young man, with two ponies and a serving-lad, might travel from the house 
of one Meg Dods to another, through most part of Scotland, for about five 
or six shillings a-day. 

Note B, p. 9 . — Building-feus in Scotland. 

In Scotland a village is erected upon a species of landright, very dif- 
ferent from the copyhold so frequent in England. Every alienation or sale 
of landed property must be made in the shape of a feudal conveyance, and 
the party who acquires it holds thereby an absolute and perfect right of 
property in the fief while he discharges the stipulations of the vassal, and, 
above all, pays the feu-duties. The vassal or tenant of the site of the 
smallest cottage holds his possessions as absolutely as the proprietor, of 
whose large estate it is perhaps scarce a perceptible portion. By dint of 
excellent laws, the sasines or deeds of delivery of such fiefs, are placed 
in record in such order, that every burden affecting the property can be 
seen for payment of a very moderate fee ; so that a person proposing to 
lend money upon it knows exactly the nature and extent of his security. 

From the nature of these landrights being so explicit and secure, the 
Scottish people have been led to entertain a jealousy of building-leases, of 
however long duration. Not long ago, a great landed proprietor took the 
latter mode of disposing of some ground near a thriving town in the west 
country. The number of years in the lease was settled at nine hundred and 
ninety-nine. All w^as agreed to, and the deeds were ordered to be drawn. 


NOTES. 


396 

But the tenant, as he walked down the avenue, began to reflect that the 
lease, thdugh so very long as to be almost perpetual, nevertheless had a 
termination ; and that after the lapse of a thousand years, lacking one, the 
connection of his family and representatives with the estate would cease. 
He took a qualm at the thought of the loss to be sustained by his posterity 
a thousand years hence; and going back to the house of the gentleman who 
feued the ground, he demanded, and readily obtained, the additional term 
of fifty years to be added to the lease. 

Note. C, p. 57. — The Dark Ladye. 

The Dark Ladye is one of those tantalizing fragments in which Mr. 
Coleridge has shown us what exquisite powers of poetry he has suffered to 
remain uncultivated. Let us be thankful for what we have received how- 
ever, The unfashioned ore, drawn from so rich a mine, is worth all to 
which art can add its highest decorations, when drawn from less abundant 
sources. The verses beginning the poem, which are published separately, 
are said to have soothed the last hours of Mr. Fox. They are the stanzas 
entitled Love. 


Note D, p. 1 18 .— Kettle of Fish. 

A kettle of fish is a pte-champiire of a particular kind, which is to other 
fite-champetres what the piscatory eclogues of Brown or Sannazario are to 
pastoral poetry. A large caldron is boiled by the side of a salmon river, 
containing a quantity of water, thickened with salt to the consistence of 
brine. In this the fish is plunged when taken , and eaten by the company 
fronde super viridi. This is accounted the best way of eating salmon by 
those who desire to taste the fish in a state of extreme freshness. Others 
prefer it after being kept a day or two, when the curd melts into oil, and 
the fish becomes richer and more luscious. The more judicious gastronomes 
eat no other sauce than a spoonful of the water in which the salmon is 
boiled, together with a little pepper and vinegar. 

Note E, p. 160. — Mago-Pico. 

This satire, very popular even in Scotland, at least with one party, was 
composed at the expense of a reverend Presbyterian divine, of whom many 
stories are preserved, being Mr. Alexander Pyott, the Mago-Pico of the 
tale, minister of Dunbar in 1733-65. The work is now little known in 
Scotland, and not at all in England, though written with much strong and 
coarse humor, resembling the style of Arbuthnot. It was composed by 
Mr. Haliburton, a military chaplain. The distresses attending Mago-Pico’s 
bachelor life are thus stated : — 

“ At the same time I desire you would only figure out to yourself his 
situation during his celibacy in the ministerial charge — a house lying all 
heaps upon heaps; his bed ill made, swarming with fleas, and very cold on 
the winter nights ; his sheep’s head not to be eaten for wool and hair, his 
broth singed, his bread mouldy,. his lambs and pigs all scouthered, his house 
neither washed nor plastered ; his black stockings darned with white worsted 
above the shoes ; his butter made into cat’s hams ; his cheese one heap of 
mites and maggots, and full of large avenues for rats and mice to play at 
hide and seek and make their nests in. Frequent were the admonitions he 
had given his maidservants on this score, and every now and then he was 
turning them off ; but still the last was the worst, and in the meanwhile 
the poor man was the sufferer. At any rate, therefore, matrimony must 


NOTES, 


397 

turn to his account, though his wife should prove to be nothing but a 
creature of the feminine gender, with a tongue in her head, and ten fingers 
on her hands, to clear out the papers of the housemaid, not to mention the 
convenience of a man having it in his power lawfully to beget sons and 
daughters in his own house .” — Memoirs of Mago-Pico. Second Edition. 
Edinburgh, 1761, p. 19. 

Note F, p. 322. — Canine Dexterity. 

There were several instances of this dexterity, but especially those 
which occurred in the celebrated case of Murdison and Millar in 1773. 
These persons, a sheep-farmer and his shepherd, settled in the vale of 
Tweed, commenced and carried on for some time an extensive system of 
devastation on the flocks of their neighbors. A dog belonging to Millar was 
so well trained that he had only to show him during the day the parcel of 
sheep which he desired to have ; and when dismissed at night for the pur- 
pose, Yarrow went right to the pasture where the flock had fed, and car- 
ried off the quantity shown to him. He then drove them before him by the 
most secret paths to Murdison’s farm, where the dishonest master and 
servant were in readiness to receive the booty. Two things were remark- 
able. In the first place, that if the dog, when thus dishonestly employed, ac- 
tually met his master, he observed great caution in recognizing him, as if he 
had been afraid of bringing him under suspicion; secondly, that he showed 
a distinct sense that the illegal transactions in which he was engaged were 
not of a nature to endure daylight. The sheep which he was directed to 
drive were often reluctant to leave their own pastures, and sometimes the 
intervention of rivers and other obstacles made their progress peculiarly 
difficult. On such occasions Yarrow continued his efforts to drive his 
plunder forward, until the day began to dawn, a signal which, he conceived, 
rendered it necessary for him to desert his spoil, and slink homeward by a 
circuitous road. It is generally said this accomplished dog was hanged 
along with his master ; but the truth is, he survived him long, in the ser- 
vice of a man in Leithen, yet was said afterward to have shown little of the 
wonderful instinct exhibited in the service of Millar. 

Another instance of similar sagacity, a friend of mine discovered in a 
beautiful little spaniel which he had purchased from a dealer in the. canine 
race. When he entered a shop, he was not long in observing that his little 
companion made it a rule to follow at some interval, and to estrange itself 
from his master so much as to appear totally unconnected with him. And 
when he left the shop, it was the dog’s custom to r nain behind him till it 
could find opportunity of seizing a pair of gloves, < i s’”' stockings, or some 
similar property, which it brought to its master. The poor fellow probably 
saved its life by falling into the hands of an ho?.:et man. 

Note G, p. 329. — Parochial Charity. 

The Author has made an attempt in this character to draw a picture of 
what is too often seen, a wretched being whose heart becomes hardened 
and spited at the world, in which she is doomed to experience much misery 
and little sympathy. The system of compulsory charity by poor’s rates, 
of which the absolute necessity can hardly be questioned, has connected 
with it on both sides some of the most odious and malevolent feelings that 
can agitate humanity. The quality of true charity is not strained. Like 
that of mercy, of which, in a large sense, it may be accounted a sister virtue, 
it blesses him that gives and him that takes. It awakens kindly feelings 
both in the mind of the donor and in that of the relieved object. The giver 


NOTES. 


398 

and receiver are recommended to each other by mutual feelings of good 
will, and the pleasurable emotions connected with the consciousness of a 
good action fix the deed in recollection of the one, while a sense of gratitude 
renders it holy to the other. In the legal and compulsory assessment for 
the proclaimed parish pauper, there is nothing of all this. The alms are 
extorted from an unwilling hand, and a heart which desires the annihilation 
rather than the relief of the distressed object. The object of charity, sen- 
sible of the ill-will with which the pittance is bestowed, seizes on it as his 
right, not as a favor. The manner of conferring it being directly calculated 
to hurt an-d disgust his feelings, he revenges himself by becoming impudent 
and clamorous. A more odious picture, or more likely to deprave the feel- 
ings of those exposed to its influence, can hardly be imagined; and yet to 
such a point have we been brought by an artificial system of society, that 
we mast either deny altogether the right of the poor to their just proportion 
of the fruits of the earth, or afford them some means of subsistence out of 
them by the institution of positive law. 

Note H, p. 394.— Meg Dods. 

Non otnnis nioriar., St. Ronan’s, since this veracious history was given 
to the public, has revived as a sort of alias^ or second title to the very 
pleasant village of Innerleithen upon Tweed, where there is a medicinal 
spring much frequented by visitors. Prizes for some of the manly and 
athletic sports common in the pastoral district around, are competed for 
under the title of the St. Ronan’s Games. Nay, Meg Dods has produced 
herself of late from obscurity as authoress of a work on Cookery, of which, 
in justice to a lady who makes so distinguished a figure as this excellent 
dame, we insert the title-page : — 

“ The Cook and Housewife’s Manual: A practical System of Modern 
Domestic Cookery and Family Management. 

‘ Cook, see all your sawces 

Be sharp and poynant io the palate, that they 7 nay 
Commend you : look to your roast and baked meats handsomely, 

And what new kickshaws and delicate made t hi figs.’ 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

By Mrs Margaret Dods, of the Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan’s.” 

Though it is rather unconnected with our immediate subject, we canni^ 
help adding that Mrs. Dods has preserved the recipes of certain excellent 
old dishes which we would be loth should fall into oblivion in our day j 
and in bearing this testimony we protest that we are in no way biassed by 
the receipt of two bottles of excellent sauce for cold meat, which were 
sent to us by Mrs. Dods as a mark of her respect and regard, for which 
we return her our unfeigned thanks, having found them capital. 


GLOSSARY TO ST. ROMAN’S WELL. 


A’, all. 

A. B. MEMORIAL, a legal memorial which 
does not give the names of the parties Con- 
cerned. 

Abbey, the sanctuary for debt at Holyrood 
Abbey. 

Ae, one. 

Airn, iron. 

Ajee, awry. 

Asteer, astir. ^ 

Aught, possession. 

Awing, owing, or bill. 

Awmrv, cupboard. 

Ballant, ballad. 

Bannet- LAIRD, a small proprietor or free- 
holder who farms his own land. 

Barclay, Captain, a celebrated pedestrian, 
who walked looo miles in looo hours, July 
1809. 

Barking and fleeing, entirely dispersed. 
Bawbee, a halfpenny. 

Bedral, sexton. 

Bent, to take the, provide for one’s 
safety, or flee the country. 

Bidden, remained. 

Bigg, build. 

Bind, one’s ability or power. 

Birl, turn, or toss. 

Blaw in my lug, flatter, 

Blawart, a blue-bottle. 

Brank, span. 

Braw, brave, fine. 

Bruick, a kind of boil. 

Caa’d, called. 

Gallant, a lad. 

Caller, fresh. 

Canna, cannot. 

Cantle, the crown of the head. 

Cantrip, an oddity. 

Carle, a fellow. 

Carline, a witch. 

Cheek-haffit, side of the cheek. 

Ckuckie, pebble. 

Clachan, a hamlet. 

Claver, gossip. 

Claw, to beat. 

Cleck. cluck or hatch. 

Cleiket, decked. 

CocK-BREE, cock-broth. 

Cockernonnie, a top-knot. 

Cogue, a wooden measure. 

Collie, a Scotch sheep-dog. 

Corbie, raven. 


CoWT, colt. 

Crap, the craw of a fowl. 

Creel, basket. 

CuiTLE, wheedle. 

Cutty, a jade. 

Daffing, frolicking. 

Daft, crazy. ~ 

Deil’s BUCKIE, devil’s imp. 
Deleerit, deliiious- 
Diet-loaf, a kind of sponge-cakc^ 
Dinna, don’t. 

Doited, dotard. 

Donnart, stupid. 

Douce, quiet, sensible. 

Dought, dared. 

Dowcot, dovecot. 

Drappie, a drop of spirits. 

Dreed, endured. 

Dung, knocked. 

Dwam, a stupor. 

Een, eyes. 

Fash, trouble. 

Feck, part. 

Feckless, honest, innocent. 

Fend, defence. 

File, foul. 

Fit, foot. 

Fliskmahoy, new-fangled. 
Flyting, scolding. 

Forby, besides. 

Forbears, ancestors. 

Fou, full, 

Frae, form. 

Fushionless skink, tasteless stuff. 

Gaen, gone. 

Gar, to force or make. 

Geisened, leaking. 

Gie, give. 

Gill-flirt, a keen flirt. 

Girn, grin. 

Gled, a kite. 

Gommeril, an ass or fool. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowk, a fool. 

Gowpen, a double handful. 
Grossart, a gooseberry. 

Ha’, hall. 

Hae, have. 

Hail, whole. 

Hale and feir, right and proper. 


400 


GLOSSARY. 


Hap, hop. 

Haud, hold. 

Hem PIE, a rake. 

Het, hot. 

Hirple, hobble. 

Hooly, softly, slowly. 

Hottlk, hotel. 

Hough, limb or thigh. 

Howe, a favorite retreat or rendezvous. 
Howk, dig. 

Huzzie, a jade. 

Hurley-hackit, an ill-hung carriage. 

Ilk, each. 

Jaugs, saddle-bags, 

Jer-falcon, a species of hawk. 

Kale, broth. 

Kittle, to tickle or manage. 

Knap, break. 

Landlouper, charlatan, adventurer. 

Lave, the remainder. 

Lea-rig, unploughed land or hillside. 

Lee, a lie. 

Leeving, living. 

Linket, linked. 

Lippen, trust. 

Loot, allowed. 

Loup, leap. 

Lug, the ear. 

Mailing, a farm. 

Mask, brew. 

Maun, must. 

Mawkin, a hare. 

Meith, a mark. 

Mell, to maul, to meddle with. 

Muckle, much. 

Murgeons, mouths. 

Neist, next. 

Ower, over. 

Parritch, porridge. 

Pat, put. 

Pawky, shrewd. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Pock, a poke, bag. 

Pootry, poultry. 

Pownie, a pony. 

PuiR, poor. 

Pyot, magpie. 

Quaigh, a whisky measure. 

Rax, stretch. 

Redd, clear. 

Roof tree, the beam of the angle of the 
house. 

Row, roll. 


Sasine, les'al, investiture. 

ScART, scratch. 

ScATE-RUMPLE, a poor awkward-looking per* 
son. 

ScAUFF AND RAFF, ragtag and bobtail. 

Shool, shovel. 

Sib, related. 

Siller, money. 

Skeely, skilful. 

Slaisster, mess. 

Sloan, a rebuff. 

Smoor, smother. 

Snap, a biscuit. 

SoKN, to live upon. 

SossiNGS AND sooPiNGS, puddle and sweep* 
ings. 

Sough, sigh ; a calm sough, a quiet tongue. 
Steer, to inquire. 

Speer, stir. 

Streekit, stretched, applied to a corpse. 
SuLD, should. 

Swarf, swoon. 

Synding, rinsing. 

Syne, since, ago. 

Tailzie, a bond of entail. 

Tane, the one. 

Tappit-hen, a measure of claret equal to 
three magnums. 

Taupie, awkward, silly girl. 

Thae, these. 

Thrawn, thwarted or twisted. 

Threepit, averred. 

Toom, empty. 

Tourbillon, French, vortex. 

Tractus tem ports in gfemio, legaly a deed 
of temporary contract. 

Troke, to traffic. 

Umquhile, the late. 

Unco, particular. 

Usquebaugh, whisky. 

Viis ET MODis, Lot. by ways and means. 

Wad, would. 

Wadna, would not. 

W Au, woeful. 

Waur, worse. 

Wee cappie, the glass. 

W BIRD, destiny. 

What for no ? why not ? 

Wheen, a few. 

Whilk, which. 

Whillywham, wheedling. 

Wi’, with. 

Wis, guess. 

Wizened, withered. 

W u D, mad. 

Yanking, smart, active. 


INDEX TO ST. RONAN’S WELL. 




A LORD at the hottle ! 147. 

A merry place, ’tv/as said, in days of yore, 6. 

Accommodation bills, 144. 

Anglers, visitors to the Cleikum Inn, 10. 

Appearance, woman’s respect for her, in all 
circumstances, 236. 

Artists, character of, 63. 

Autumn, scenery of, 296. 

Beggars,, gentle, 353. 

Bidmore, Augusta, connection with Cargill 

^. 157 - 

Bidmore, Lord, 156. 

Bills, accommodation, 144. 

Bindloose, Meg’s lawyer, 132. 

Binks, Sir Bingo, his marriage, 22. De- 
scription of, 29. Bet on the salmon, 38. 
47. Note to Tyrrel, 44. Bet on Tyr- 
rel’s social position, 50. Quarrel over the 
wine, 76. Flung aside by Tyrrel, 8 t. 
Challenges him, 113. At the duel, 123. 
Laughed at as boatswain, 2 to. 

Binks, Lady, her position and chara^iter, 54. 
Skirmish with Lady Penelope, 62, Indig- 
nation at Lady Penelope’s tea-parW, 345. 

Blower, Mrs., conversation with Dr. Quack- 
leben, 64. Objections to plays, 197. 

Buck-stane, the, 82. 

Buhner. Etherington. 

Canine dexterity, note on, 397. 

Canine race, quarrels of, 75. 

Cargill, Rev. Josiah, his history, 155. Ab- 
sence of mind, 163. Alarm at Clara’s 
rumored marriage, 171. Interview with 
Clara at the theatricals, 211. And Ether- 
ington, 213, 269. Interrogated by Lady 
Penelope, 217. Connection with Clara’s 
marriage, 256. Receives the confession of 
Hannah Irwin, 3S3. 

Challenge from Sir Bins:o to Tyrrel, iii. 

Champagne dangerous for ladies, 73. 

Charity, parochial, note on, 397. 

Chatterly. Simon, the curate, Meg’s opinion 
of, 19. Description, 31. Reception of, at 
the Cleikum, 40. Note of invitation to 
Tyrrel, 43. 

Chirupping Club, 6. 

Christianity of Anglo-Indians, 344. 

Clara Mowbray described by Meg, 21. Joins 
the company at the Well, 69. Warns 
Tyrrel, 80. Meets him on her way home. 


87. In her parlor, 105. Rumored mar« 
riage, 171. Acts Helena, 103. Addressed 
by Cargill, 21 1. Tells her brother about 
the shawl, 222. Interview with him about 
Etherington’s proposal, 230. Begs for 
liberty, 234. Interview with Etherington, 
239. Connection with Tyrrel and Ether- 
ington, 251. False marriage, 256, 367. 
Hannah Irwin’s confession about her, 328. 
Slandered at the tea-party, 346. Last in- 
terview with her brother, 352. Threatened 
with death, 355. Appears before Hannah 
Irwin, 386. Dies in Tyrrel’s room, 389. 

Cleikum Inn, ii. 

Commercial travelers, Meg’s dislike to, 21. 

Dark Ladye, 396. 

Dick Tinto, 

Digges, Maria, 34. Thinks Tyrrel’s nose too 
big, 63. Acts Queen of Elves, 205. 

Dinner at the Fox Hotel, 32. Quarrel after, 
76 • 

Dinner, Touchwood’s idea of, i68. 

Dods. Meg. 

Dogs, dexterity of, 397. 

Dogs, quarrels of, 75. 

Duel at St. Ronan’s, 123. The statement, 
128. Cause of its failure, 189. The pla- 
card torn down, 284. 

Etherington, Lord, 17. Accident to, 147. 
189. Arrivals at the Weil, 173. Pro- 
poses for Clara, 180. Accounts of his 
family, 181. Letter to Jeykl, 188. Acts 
Bottom at Shaws Castle, 206. Addressed 
by Cargill, 213. Interview with Ciara, 239. 
Explains Tyrrel’s relationship to Mow- 
bray, 243. His connection with him and 
Clara, 246, 259. Employs Solmes to ab- 
stract the packet, 308. Cool meeting 
with Tyrrel, 3 14. Sees the packet in the 
post-office, 320. At Hannah Irwin’s con- 
fession, 326. Opens Tyrrel’s packet, 334. 
Wins heavily from Mowbray, 340. Reve- 
lation by Touchwood, 363. Shot dead by 
Mowbrajs 392. 

Feus in Scotland, 395. 

Fish, kettle of, note on, 396. 

Frank. Tyrrel. 'J " 

Furnishing, difficulties of, to gentlemen, 
■96. 


402 


INDEX. 


Gambling, Author’s testimony against, vii. 

Gentle beggars, 353. 

Gilsland Spa, iv. 

Govv, Neil, the fiddler, 202. 

Grace, Mrs. Blower’s anxiety for the, 64, 66. 

Greief, the sickness of the heart, go- 

Hannah. See Irwin. 

Heggie, Anne. See Irwin. 

Heiter Skelter Club, 9. 

Honor, points of, 343. 

Hotel charges in Scotland, note^ 395. 

Howgate Inn, 5. 

Improvements, doubtful, 143. 

Inn charges in Scotland, notef 395. 

Irwin, Hannah, her confessions, 326, 383. 

Jekyl, Captain, letter from Etherington, 
188, 246. Latter to Etherington, 264. 
Mediates between him and Tyrrel, 283. 
Bored by Touchwood, 298. 

Kettle of fish, note on, 396. 

Killnakelty Hunt, 8. 

Lions at watering-places, 53. 

Love, hopeless, cannot last forever, 160. 

Love-letter easily told, 311. 

Luck, belief in, 98. 

MacTurk, Captain Hector, 30. Acts 
peacemaker, 77. Nursing the duel, 112. 
Encounter with Meg, 114. At the duel, 
123. Compromise on the Highland garb, 
195. Turns out the pseudo-Gaels, 209. 
Apology to Tyrrel, 313. Angry discussion 
with Touchwood on points of honor, 343. 
Assists Mowbray after the duel, 392. 

Mago-Pico, note on, 396. 

Malt liquor preferred by everybody, 360. 

Manse of St. Ronan’s, 4. Slovenly character 
of, 162. 

Marchthorn, 130. 

Maria. See Digges- 

Marriages, private, 249. 

Martigny, Marie de, 248. 

Meg Dods of the Cleikum Inn, 6, Recep- 
tion of Tyrrel, 13. Extolling his drawings, 
25. Angry reception on his return from tlie 
Well, 93. Encounter with MacTurk, 114. 
Visit to her lawyer, 132. Dislike to travel- 
ing in the Fox’s chaise, 150. Alarm at 
Tyrrel’s appearance, 275. At Clara’s 
death'bed, 388. Cared for by Mowbray, 
394. Note on, 398. 

Meiklewham, Mr., the lawyer, 30. Calls 
Lady Penelope to order, 60. Quarrel over 
the wine, 77. Counsels Mowbray to obtain 
Clara’s money, 99. Counseling moderate 
gains, 175, 

Meredith, Mr., the wit, 31. 

Midsummer Niglit’s Dream at'Shaws Castle, 
195. 

Mowbray, Clara. See Clara. 

Mowbray family, 5. 

Mowbray, Mr.j of St. Ronan’s, 27. Bet on 
the salmon, 38. Bets Tyrrel a raff, 50. 
Quarrel over the wine, 76. Consolation 
■with Meiklewham, 98. Obtains Clara’s 
money, 107. At play with Etherington, 179. 


Who proposes for Clara, 180. Theatricals 
at Shaws Castle, 193. Sneer at Lady Pe- 
nelope about the shawl, 225. Interview with 
Clara about the proposal, 230. Receives 
the anonymous warning, 237. And shows 
it to Etherington, 243. Fatal play with 
Etherington, 339. Hears Clara slandered 
at the tea-party, 347. Last interview with 
her, 352. Throws away his hunting-knife, 
56, 377- Revelation from Touchwood, 
361. Search for his sister, 375. Meets 
and shoots Etherington, 392. Latter days 
of, 393 - 

Nabob, the. Touchwood. 

Nabobs the plague of the country, 16. 

Negus-making, 36. 

Nelly Trotter, the fish-woman, 25. Brings 
Tyrrel’s drawing to the Well, 35. 

Novels, domestic, iii. 

Parochial charity, note on, 397. 

Peace-officers, title of, 33. 

Peasantry, radical, 143. 

Penfeather, Lady Penelope, 29. Told on by 
Maria, 34. Patronizing Tyrrel, 52. Call- 
ed to order by Meiklewham, 60. Skirmish 
with Lady IJinks, 62. Determination to 
be single, 69. Acts Hermia, 203. Tries 
to gain information from Cargill, 217. 
Sneered at about the shawl, 225. Takes 
Etherington to Hannah Irwin, 322. Her 
tea-party, 342. 

Pharmacopoeia, Dr. Quackleben’s, 66. 

Piquet, 176. 

Police, called peace-officers, 33. 

Poor-law charity, note, on 3 97. 

Quackleben, Dr. Quentin, 31. Consid- 
eration for Tyrrel’s health, 47. Sits down 
by Mrs. Blower, 64. Feeling her pulse, 
67. At the duel, 122. His rider to the 
statement, 129. Sacrifices the whole drama 
for Mrs. Blower, 198. 

Radical peasantry, 143. 

Revenge deferred the most dangerous, 225. 

St. Ronan’s Castle, 2. Kirk, 4. Manse, 
4, 162. Spa-well, 9. Meg’s account of, 
21. The government of, 28, Village,!. 

St. Ronan’s Well, the novel. Author’s ac« 
count of, iii. 

Satire, light, women gifted with, iii. 

Saunders Jaup’s jaw-hole, 272. 

Scenery, hill, 2. 

Scotch, better bankers than beaux, 191. 
scenery, 2. 

Scotland, increase of weath in. i, 

Scrogie, family connection with Etherington. 
181. Disclosure by Touchwood, 361. 

Shawl got for Clara, 177. Mrs. IJlower’s 
estimate of it, 204. Given to Lady Pene- 
lope 223. Evil result of, 366. 

Shaws Castle theatricals, 193. Description 
of the house, 200. 

Solmes employed to abstract the packet, 308. 
And remove Hannan Irwin, 337. Out- 
manoeuvred by Touchwood, 369. 

S}ja the. See St. Ronan’s. 

Spa life, iv., v. 


INDEX. 


403 


Tea, Touchwood’s opinions of, 145. 

Tea-party, Lady Penelope’s, 342. 

Teaching, love dangerous in, 157. 

Theatricals at Shaws Castle, 193* 

Tinto, Dick, 1 1. 

Toothache, a cure for, 122. 

Touchwood, Peregrine, at Bindloose’s, 140. 
At the Cleikum Inn, 15 1. Visit to Cargill, 
162. Has him at dinner, 168. Invited to 
Shaws Castle, 169. On shawls, 204. De- 
tects Binks as Boatswain, 210. Tries to 
improve the Aultoun, 270. Falls into the 
sewer, 272. Interviews Jekyl, 298. On 
points of honor, 34^. Offers assistance to 
Mowbray, 348. Discloses his relationship 
to Mowbray, 362. Countermines Ether- 
ington, 369, 381. 

Travelers, commercial Meg’s dislike to, 14. 

Trifles, subserviency to, 371. 

Tyrrel, Frank, arrival at the Cleikum Inn, 
13. Reflections on the scene, 18. Sensa- 
tion over his drawing at the Well, 36. 
Invitations to the Well, 48. Joins the com- 
pany at the Well, 43. The bet on his posi- 
tion, 50. Arrested by Clara’s empty chair, 
57. Quarrel over the wine, 76. Throws 
Sir Bingo out of his way, 82. Meeting 
with Clara, 87. Receives Sir Bingo’s chal- 


lenge, 1 16. Disappearance, 135. Mow- 
bray’s inquiries about him, 244. History of 
his connection with Etherington and Clara, 
247, 258. Assists Touchwood out of the 
sewer, 272. Alarm at his reappearance at 
the Cleikum, 274. Jekyl's mediation, 282. 
Gazes at Clara’s portrait, 295. Apology 
from Sir Bingo, 313. And meeting with 
Etherington, 314. His documents abstrac- 
ted by Etherington, 334. At Clara’s death- 
bed, 387-390. 

Valentine Bulmer. See Etherington. 

Villages, emigration from, to towns, i. 

Waiting, clumsy, 32. 

Watering-place characters, note, vii. Govern- 
ments, 28. Surveillance, 67. 

Well. See St. Ronan’s. 

Wildfire Club, ii. 

Winterblossom, Mr., 31. Rapture over 
Tyrrel’s drawing, 36. Letters of invitation 
to him, 42. Agrees to act second in the 
duel, 12 1. 

Woman’s respect for her appearance in all 
circumstances, 236. 

Women gifted with light satire, iii. the ric* 
tims of feeling, 323. 







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661 


6 
53 
£(i5 
373 
I 441 


20 

20 


10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

15 

10 

10 

20 

10 


463 

467 

471 

484 

488 

491 

501 

506 

512 

617 

519 

524 

527 

.529 

532 

519 

543 


15 

16 
.10 
.10 
.20 
.10 
.10 
.20 


548 

553 

559 

562 

570 

576 

587 

601 


20 I 603 
10 i 611 


3 


BY THOMAS CAELYLE 

History of French Revolution, J 


Parts, each 

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The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau .....20 

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Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 

BY J, FENIMORE COOPER 

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The Spy 20 

The Patlifinder 20 

Homeward Bound 20 

Home as Found 20 

The Deerslayer ^10 

The Px*airie 20 

The Pioneer 25 

The Two Admirals 20 

The Water- Witch 20 

The Red Rover 20 

The Pilot 20 

Wing and Wing 20 

Wyandotte ,..20 

Heidenmauer 20 

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Lionel Tjincoln 20 

Wept of Wish-ton- Wish 20 

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Miles Wallintrrord 20 

TheMonikins 20 

Mercedes of Castile 20 

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.580 III Durance Vile lO 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, ’• O Tender 

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792 HerW.-ek’s Amusement 10 

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149 Janet’s Repentance 10 

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195 Dani 1 Deroiula, 2 Parts, each 20 

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355 Mystery of Orcival 20 

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258 File No. 113 20 

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796 Property in Land 16 

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157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk 

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758 “ “ Part III 10 

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765 “ “ PartV lO 

774 “ “ Part VI 10 

778 “ “ Part VII 10 

782 “ “ Part VIII 10 

785 “ “ Part IX 10 

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535 Studies in Civil Service 15 

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784 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

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364 Life of Scott 20 

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198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Cokimbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey .. .10 

236 Knickerbocker History of New York,2() 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain. 10 

281 Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Praii ies .10 

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311 Captain Bonneville 20 

314 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies ... 10 

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754 A Modern Midas 2« 

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531 Poems 28 


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876 The Witch’s Head, by H. Rider 

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898 Joan Wentworth, by Katherine S. 

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910 With Cupid’-s Eyes, by Marryat 20 

911 Not Like Other Giils, by Rosa 

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912 Robert Ord's Atonement, by Rosa 

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316 It is Never Too Late to Mend, by 

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924 Karma, by A. P. Slnnett 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman, by Oliphant ... 20 

926 Clarlbel’s Love Story, by B. M. Clay 20 

927 Pure Gold, by Mrs. Lovett-Cameron.20 

928 Thrown on the World, bvB.M Clay.20 

929 Under a Shadow, by B. M. Clay. . 20 

930 A Struggle for a Ring, by B.M. Clay.20 

931 Why Not? by Florence Marryat. ..20 

932 Hilary’s Folly, by Bertha M. Clay. .20 

933 A Haunted Life, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

934 A Woman’s Love Story, by Clay — 20 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, by Warren, 

P’t 1 20 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, by Warren, 
Ft II 20 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, by Warren, 

P’tm 20 

936 Mai 1 of Sker, by R. D. Blackmore..20 

937 My Sister the Actress, by Marryat. 26 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary,by Marryat. 10 

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940 The Root of All Evil, by Marryat.. 20 

941 Dawn, by IT. Rider Haggard 20 

942 Facing the Footlights, by Marryat.20 

943 Petronel, by Florence Marryat 20 

944 A Star and a Heart, by Marryat... 10 

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946 A Harvest of Wild Oats,by Marryat.20 

947 The Poison of Asps, by F. Marryat.lO 

948 Fair-Haired Alda, by F. Marryat. . . 20 

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950 Under the Lilies and Roses, by 

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951 The Heart of Jano Warner, by 

Florence Marryat 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, by Marryat, Ft I. .20 

952 Love’s Conflict, by Marryat, Ft II.. 20 

953 Phyllida, by Florence Marryat 20 

£34 Out of his Reckoning, by Marryat.lO 
955 CradockNowell,by Blackmore,P’t I 20 
955 Cradock Nowell, by R. D. Black- 

more, Ft II.». 20 

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957 The Dead Secret, by Wilkie Coliins.^o 
953 Sabina Zembra, by William Black.. 20 

959 Wee Wlfie, by R. N. Carey 20 

960 Wooed and Married, by Carey 20 

961 Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore . , kO 

962 Knight-Errant, by Edna Lyall.. . . 20 

963 Her Jobnnie, by Violet Whyte 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd, by 

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965 The Lilies of Florence, by G. Sand 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess, Tribune 

Prize War Stmi-es 20 

957 The Three Bummers. THbune PriZi- 
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968 Bound by a Spell, by Hugh Conway. 20 

969 A Woman’s War, by B.M Clay 20 

970 Against her Will, by A. M. Howard.20 

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The treatment of many thousands of 
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blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
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Targe bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
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Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
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NO. 668 Main stbeet, buffalo^ n. y% 




Sambo’S Testimonial 


PEARS’ SOAP 



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